


He That Robs Himself

by FandomTrash24601



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Academy Era, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Don’t copy to another site, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Non-Canonical Character Death, Sort Of, Soulmate AU, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Starfleet Academy, Teacher-Student Relationship, You’re probably gonna want tissues eventually, but not in a weird way, there ain’t no happy endings in sight here y’all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2020-06-26 13:11:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 46,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19768903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FandomTrash24601/pseuds/FandomTrash24601
Summary: They’re little differences until they’re not.Title from Shakespeare’s Othello.





	1. Exposition

Jim knows that there's something very wrong with him the moment that the words appear. They appear for him like they do for every ten-year-old child destined to live long enough to meet the two most important people in their lives. The name that appears above his heart is that of his soulmate, and the name that appears on the inside of his left forearm is that of the person who will kill him.

Some have one, or neither. A girl in Jim's grade has only the soulmate mark, and those are the lucky ones. They're the ones who meet their soulmate and die of old age, or a virus, or something else natural. There's no murder, or poisoning, or hit-and-run in their futures. Everyone wants to be like them.

Sam has a boy in his grade with just a name on his forearm, and another kid in his grade had neither. The second kid tripped and fell into the old stone quarry the summer before last. Those are the ones who are pitied, those who will die before meeting their soulmate or whose soulmates will die before meeting them.

Jim doesn't think that a situation like his has ever occurred, though.

"Frank," he says, walking downstairs on legs that shake just a little. He has his shirt in his hands, clutched tight in worried fists.

Frank, lounging on the couch, grunts in response. He'd be working outside, but there's a snowstorm so he's inside watching the television while wind whips and rages beyond the walls of their house.

"Frank," Jim repeats, a little more forcefully.

Frank finally looks over and snaps, "What?" but Jim doesn't respond because he sees the moment that Frank understands. His watery blue eyes widen and his mouth drops open. His face is flushed from alcohol, but Jim thinks he sees it pale a little.

"What do I do?" Jim asks.

"Fuck, kid," Frank says, sounding almost sympathetic. "I dunno."

Jim doesn't know either. Maybe he'll ask one of his teachers tomorrow what the hell he supposed to do when the names are the same. It's not two different people, because the handwriting is identical, but Jim just doesn't know what to do with himself.

He retreats to his room and traces the name on his arm, then his chest, then his arm again. This pattern repeats until Jim could trace the name perfectly while blindfolded, until he can see the name when he closes his eyes, now printed on the inside of his eyelids.

_Spock_ .

Jim wonders how it'll happen.

Frank continues to be an ass to Jim, although less so now that Jim belongs to a pitied population. Sam almost leaves home, but Jim decides otherwise. It's a difficult debate, with lots of screaming, but eventually Jim emerges the victor.

Sam stays. So does their father's antique car, and so does Jim.

Jim very quickly masters the art of never taking his shirt off, ever. The kids at school think it's sort of cool— “Damn, you're gonna get killed by a Romulan or something? Sick." Jim laughs and agrees with them, says it'll be blaze-of-glory style, he's sure of it, but he's overly conscious of the name on his chest all the while.

There are some who ask about the name on his chest— if he's being honest, far more than some; soulmate marks are hot gossip— and Jim always tries to brush the questions off to the best of his ability. The questions keep coming though. It's not normal for someone to hide their soulmate mark unless they don't have one, and so soon enough Jim's secrecy is even more popular than the relationship between newly-minted soulmates Jenna and Arthur.

So Jim just... stops going to school. The education officials throw a fit, but Jim studies at home on his own and passes all of the tests that he needs to take with flying colors. There's nothing much that can be done after that, because he's learning what he needs to learn, and so Jim escapes the questions about his soulmate and teaches himself everything he needs to know and then some.

He finds company in books. He becomes really interested in Shakespeare, particularly the tragedies. _Othello_ fascinates him, the concept of a good man who truly loves his wife being manipulated to the point where he would murder the woman he loves more than anything. He wonders throughout the entire scene of Desdemona and Othello's deaths whether or not his death will resemble either of theirs at all.

He really hopes not.

Jim's just come back from the quarry one day at the age of fourteen when the tone in the news reporter's voice stops him dead in his tracks in the entry hall. He backs up and then enters the living room, where the television is on but there's no one there.

There'd been a virus that infected the grain on a little, fairly backwater colony. Tarsus IV, it had been called. Of the initial population of about 8,000 people, only about 4,000 have survived. There was use of eugenics, the reporter claims, but so far no evidence had been found, partially because the governor's mansion had been burned and the governor killed.

"Frank," Jim calls. Frank's in the kitchen, he knows, because he can hear the rattling of utensils. "Frank, holy shit, you have to see this."

"What?" Frank snaps, but comes into the living room, wiping his hands down with a towel. Jim rewinds it and lets it play again, watches Frank turn green.

"Sweet fuck," Frank mutters when the report's over.

"Yeah." Jim shakes his head. "The court system around here- it sometimes offers kids the option between correctional facilities on colony planets and juvie. They've sent kids to Tarsus before."

"How the hell'd you know that?" Frank asks.

"Got bored a couple weeks ago, did some research on random shit. Did you know that Xora's oceans— well, that's what they call them, anyways— are never more than a mile deep? Most of the planet is like those Caribbean beaches from postcards, with hundreds of feet of water before you even get up to your waist."

Frank just shakes his head and walks away.

Jim, though, stays and listens. He watches the names of deceased colony citizens roll across the bottom of the screen, reads their names with an ever-increasing sense of horror because the names go on and on and they don't repeat. Tiffany Moulds, Kylie Hussey, Ryth Ch'azyvas, Poshia Sh'etaalol, Atessas Zh'vosros, Tiv Th'zitross, Julie Leighton, Marcus Leighton, Thomas Leighton, Dintin Var...

It takes hours to replay. Jim sits there the whole time, trying to pay some sort of tribute in the only way that he can.

"Jesus, Jimmy," Sam says over the vid screen. He's off at college, studying biomedical engineering at the University of Southern California, but his scorn is so great that Jim can feel the weight of it through the screen, like Sam's back in the house. "You're not going to college? With your brain?"

Jim shrugs. "What, like I'd be challenged there, either?"

"You might be." Sam raises his eyebrows at Jim in a slightly condescending, very older-brother manner. "You never know."

"Yeah, yeah." Jim glances at the old-fashioned clock that still hangs in their house. "Listen, man, it's been great talking to you, but I've gotta go. I'll be late for work."

"You could do better, Jim," Sam says just before Jim cuts their communication.

Jim thinks of the tattoo he got a couple of months ago that runs from his wrist to his elbow. It's an inky expanse dotted with little stars and planets that he can pass off as a tribute to his father. If it happens to completely cover one of his soulmarks, then oh well.

Jim groans and stands, cracking his neck to relieve some of the tension and hopefully hold off the headache that he can feel beginning to form. His leather jacket is draped over the back of his chair; he grabs it and shrugs it on, thinking all the whole of Sam's parting words.

He could do better, sure. He could go to college, to Starfleet, anywhere. He's smart enough that there's nothing stopping him. Any college would absolutely take advantage of the chance to scoop him up. He's sure that college wouldn't be hard, either, and it would get him a better paying job.

But the name under his tattoo stops him every time. College and Starfleet would mean new people, and new people could mean his soulmate, his killer.

So, no. He's fine where he is.

He should be used to it by now, after years as a mechanic, but it's still annoying that he has to shower before going anywhere after work. So here he is, now, freshly showered and ready to try and pick up a girl. He's luckier on nights like these, when the bar is flooded with non-residents, with people he doesn't know.

There's a regal, dark-skinned girl in the red uniform of a Starfleet cadet sitting at the bar, and she looks like she might be a little wild in the sheets. He grins and sidles up next to her at the bar.

"Hey," he says, flashing his most charming smile. "I'm Jim. What's your name?"

"None of your business," she tells him, arching an eyebrow, but he can tell that she's amused.

"I'd like to make it my business, if you don't mind." He winks at her and she rolls her eyes, but still her lips are curling at the corners.

"Is this town hick bothering you, miss?" interrupts a bulky cadet, so clearly full of himself in that uniform. Jim hates people like him.

"Oh, beyond belief. But it's nothing I can't handle."

"Yeah," Jim says, turning to grin at the guy. "So bump off, moon pie."

"Hey," the guy barks, stepping way into Jim's personal space. "Who do you think you're talking to? I'm a future Starfleet officer."

"So?" Jim asks, spinning his barstool around to give the soon-to-be cadet an unimpressed look. He just wants this dude to go away so he can hopefully get the seducing back on track. "What're you going to do about it?"

Just a few minutes later, Jim's laying on the slightly sticky bar floor, covered in beer from the bottle that was smashed over his head. His nose is bleeding, too, and he tips his head back to peer at the person approaching him. The bar is cleared out now, so it can only be the dude with the really, really loud whistle and the authority to drive a bunch of cadets from the bar.

"Damn," he says. "You whistle really loud."

"Get off of the floor, Kirk," the man says. He's got salt-and-pepper hair and wears a gray formal Starfleet uniform. It looks uncomfortable.

Jim struggles to his feet and drops hard into a chair, accepting the tissue handed to him by one of the bar staff with a grunt that's supposed to mean 'thank you.' He holds it to his nose and squints at the man who has taken a seat across from him.

"How do you know me?" Jim asks.

"I wrote my dissertation on the Kelvin," the man says. "And I've had the... fortune... of meeting your mother on multiple occasions."

"She's a hell of a woman," Jim says. He sniffs and grimaces at the uncomfortably slick slide of blood down his throat.

"What are you doing here?" the man asks.

"I'd like to know your name before I answer that."

"I'm Captain Christopher Pike."

"Alright, Captain Christopher Pike. I'm here because this is my hometown."

"Eugh, no, call me Captain Pike or call me Chris. And you know that that's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?" Jim asks contrarily.

"What are you doing  _here?"_ Captain Pike gestures to the bar. "In a dive bar in the middle of nowhere?"

"Hey, now," Jim says. "That's my home you're insulting."

"You could be better than this," Captain Pike tells him. "You could be a captain, if you wanted to be. You could have your own starship, your own crew."

"Why would I want that?" Jim challenges him.

"Because you're meant for something greater than this, and we both know it." Captain Pike raises his eyebrows at Jim. "You can feel it. I know you can. You could be the greatest captain of the century; you've got that drive, that capability. Don't deny the galaxy something so legendary."

Fuck if Jim doesn't want it more than anything, what Captain Pike's offering. To be a captain, to show that he's more than his father's legacy... He does have that drive. He's always had it, has been wary of it since he was ten.

"What if I don't feel like it?" Jim raises his own eyebrows in return. "What if I enjoy being a mechanic?"

"You might enjoy being a mechanic," Captain Pike admits. "But do you love it enough to spend the rest of your life fixing old vehicles? Will it take you anywhere, let you meet new cultures, new life, new civilizations?"

Jim stays silent.

"Think about it. The shuttle leaves tomorrow morning." Captain Pike stands from his chair and moves towards the door, but pauses just before leaving. He turns back to Jim, still soaked in beer and holding a bloody tissue to his nose, and says, "Your father was captain of a vessel for twelve minutes, and in those minutes, he saved eight hundred lives. I dare you to do better."

The door shuts softly behind him, like he was a ghost, like he was never there. Jim looks around at the almost bar, empty except for the bar staff who are giving him dirty looks. He looks back at the door and gives Captain Pike a couple of seconds to get just a little more gone before he stands on slightly shaky legs and leaves the building himself.

Maybe it's time to stop being wary of the name on his body and let destiny run its course.

There's only one other person on the shuttle not in some sort of uniform. Jim likes him immediately and takes one of the empty seats on either side of the man. His hair is dark brown and a complete mess, and his eyes are squeezed shut. His hands tremble where they're gripping the armrests so hard that the knuckles have turned white.

They haven't even taken off yet, won't for another ten minutes, so his behavior is more than a little odd. Jim looks carefully at him, at the thick stubble coating his chin and the rhythmic clenching of his jaw. He supposes the man is attractive enough, but he looks like he's had a rough time of it.

"Dude," Jim says, his voice just a little awed by the man's whole demeanor. "You know that this isn't the shuttle to Aviophobes Anonymous, right?"

"Ha-fucking-ha," the man barks, not moving at all except to maybe crease his face into an even fiercer scowl, if that's at all possible. He's got a Southern accent, which surprises Jim for no discernible reason.

"You're signing up for Starfleet?" Jim asks incredulously.

"Says the kid who reeks of booze."

"Hey, now, that's not fair. I didn't even have anything to drink last night. I just had a bottle smashed over my head."

That gets the man's eyes to open, just a tad. He glances at Jim.

"Fight?"

"Mhmm."

This seems to cut through the man's anxiety, and it's like a switch has been flipped. He straightens up and lets go of the armrests to grab Jim's face, twisting it this way and that.

"Any dizziness? Nausea?"

"I mean, a little-" The man, who's apparently a doctor, presses on the bump left by the bottle and Jim hisses.

"Did you get hit anywhere else?"

"Not with a beer bottle, no. I got hit in the stomach and sides pretty good, and I got hit in the nose."

The man moves his hand towards Jim's nose, and he jerks back out of reach. The man seems peeved by this, which Jim supposes is fairly reasonable.

"Before I let you play with my nose all the live-long day, what's your name?"

"McCoy. Leonard McCoy." The man scowls, his eyes darkening. "But my name's all I got left, now. The ex-wife took all but my bones in the divorce."

_Bones_ , Jim thinks. Yeah, that fits.

"Jim Kirk," Jim says with a nod. "Nice to meet you, Bones."

Jim and Bones become good friends, although Bones is just a tad bit too angry and depressing for Jim's taste. He ends up with a surprising amount of casual friends and a few good friends, something he hasn't had in a while. He's closest with Gaila, Bones, and even Nyota, who manages to get over her first impression of him.

"Tell me," Nyota says one day, out of the blue, "why did you come to Starfleet?"

They're sitting in her room, which she shares with Gaila, but Gaila is still in a class so it's just him and Nyota, who is sitting at her desk and painting her toenails a deep ruby red. Jim is sprawled across Gaila's bed, his head hanging off of the end of it as he watches her.

Jim thinks of the fear he's always carried— and still does, to an extent— of the name on his arm and chest. He thinks of stagnancy, of dares, of legacies.

"I got bored," he tells her.

"Hmm."

"Why are you painting your toenails?" Jim asks. "It's not like we'll be sunbathing on the beach any time soon; it's December."

"It makes me feel a little more confident," Nyota says, scowling and blushing but continuing her toenail painting with sure strokes. "Don't judge, you ass."

"I'm not judging!" Jim rolls onto his stomach, his head spinning with the movement. "Why do you need to feel more confident?"

"I have a meeting with one of my professors tomorrow." She sounds a little shy, almost, which is most unlike her. "He's scary and attractive and I need some confidence."

"Who are you meeting with?" Jim asks. He tries to keep his tone casual, but he's desperate to know who this professor is that gets Nyota hot and bothered, because he'll be able to use this to make fun of her for ages.

"Professor Spock."

The response to her words is physical more than it is mental. Jim's inside freeze, but his skin seems to flare with heat. He sucks in a large breath, trying to be subtle about the fact that he’s quite literally forgotten to breathe for a few seconds. His head spins despite the fact that's he's taking in oxygen, like he's just gotten off of one of those old tilt-a-whirl carnival rides.

Could it be that he's really this close to his soulmate so soon?

"...Spock?" Jim repeats. His ears are ringing.

"Yeah, professor Spock. He's my Vulcan teacher. He also teaches some science and computer programming courses. Gaila has him, too."

"Oh," Jim says, his mouth dry. The name under his tattoo feels like it's burning, like if he looked then he would see the name emerging in a quest for vengeance from the ink he once covered it with. "That's cool."

She looks up from her nails and gives him an odd look. After a second, she caps her nail polish and sets in on her desk before turning back to him with a real, fully scrutinizing squint.

"What?" she demands.

"I- That's my soulmate's name. Spock. Do you think-?"

Her mouth drops open as she gawks at him. Jim shifts uncomfortably.

"You're kidding."

"I'm not."

"We'll have to get you near him someday, have you interact and see if your mark burns."

Nyota then proceeds to completely forget about knowing that Jim's soulmate mark is the name of the professor she's crushing on, but Jim doesn't mind. He's not sure he's quite ready to meet Spock anyways, whether the professor is his soulmate or just another Vulcan with that same name.

It's not until their second year at the Academy, during which Jim and Bones share a room, that Jim sees Bones with his shirt off. Neither of them are particularly shy about their bodies, and so one day soon after the beginning of the year Jim looks up from warp physics homework to see Bones exiting the bathroom, newly showered.

His hair is sticking up all over the place after having been roughly rubbed dry, and the towel draped around his waist slips just a bit lower with every step. He's attractive, sure, but Jim's more captivated by the area over his heart than the trail of hair disappearing under the towel.

"Oh," Jim vocalizes before he can stop it.

Bones looks up over at Jim, his face bland, and asks, "What?"

"Your, uh, your soulmate mark. Or... your not-soulmate mark."

Bones looks down at his chest, free of any sort of markings. "Oh, yeah." He gives Jim an odd look. "Well, I figured that you knew that I didn't have one. People with soulmate marks don't normally go through hellish divorces."

"I had a concussion," Jim protests. "You can't blame me."

"I can blame you for not realizing afterwards."

"Yeah, I guess so," Jim concedes.

"What's up with your arm tattoo?" Bones asks, nodding at Jim's arm. "I mean, if we're talkin' about marks..."

Jim looks down at his left forearm, at the inked expanse that sprawls from his wrist to his elbow. Nobody else can see the name, but Jim could still trace his fingers directly over the letters of Spock's name without looking.

"It's-" Jim shrugs. "I suppose I don't want to broadcast to the person that's going to kill me that they're gonna kill me, you know?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"You don't have a name on your arm," Jim points out, curious. "Do you think you're going to be the one to die first?"

"I haven't really thought too much about it," Bones admits. "I hope not, but now that I'm in Starfleet, probably. I just hope it's not something bloody or gory, like xenopolycymegthia or Andorian shingles.

"Why not?" Jim laughs. "Live fast, die young, yeah?"

"Maybe that's your aspiration." Bones shakes his head. "Mine is to die on a farm in Georgia at 112, but currently it's to get dressed, so if you could just-"

"Oh, yeah, sure." Jim spins around to face his desk again. "Hey, did you know that a surprising amount of next year's senior class doesn't have soulmarks? Weird, right?"

"So what are our plans for after the Academy?" Jim asks one Friday evening late in second year. "Are we all going to sign up to be members of my badass crew?"

"Only if I can be CEO," Gaila says sweetly, knocking back a shot of Denobulan fire whiskey like it's water.

"And only if I can be CCO," Nyota says as she swirls her straw through the neon slush in her glass that somehow passes as an alcoholic drink.

"Done and done." Jim turns to Bones, nursing a glass of bourbon. "Bones?"

"You ain't getting me on a starship, Jim," Bones says, shaking his head. "No way."

"Bones, we're in Starfleet," Jim wheedles. "What do you mean you won't get on a spaceship? Think of all of the new discoveries that we could make!"

"The new diseases, the new ways to die..." Bones scowls and shakes his head. "Not happening. I'm staying Earthside, thank you very much, where maybe if Jocelyn is feeling gracious I can see my baby girl once a year."

Jim remembers their first meeting on the shuttle, how tightly Bones had gripped the armrests of his seat, and thinks that maybe it's something a little more than custody keeping Bones grounded. It's not Jim's place to intervene, though, and he knows it. Besides, Bones' temper can be surprisingly fierce at times, and he doesn't want to tempt it.

Jim sighs theatrically and says, "Fine, but you'll be missing out."

"Missing out on unknown space diseases?" Bones nods. "Sign me up for that."

"You'll be missing out on discovering new life, new civilizations! I can't believe you'd pass that up."

"Well, I didn't pass my shuttle license class with a high enough grade to become a senior officer, so I couldn't possibly be your CMO even if you wanted me to." Bones takes a large swallow of his drink.

"You didn't reach the senior officer requirement?" Jim himself had passed with flying colors, but he'd never had any fear of shuttles. "Oh. That does throw a wrench in my plan."

"So make a new one that doesn’t involve me being stuck on some flying tin can."

"Don't insult his future ship like that, Len!" Gaila admonishes, whacking his upper arm with the back of her hand.

Bones rolls his eyes and takes another swallow of his drink, but there's a hint of a smile tugging at his lips as he does. Nyota, sitting next to Jim, sets her empty glass down in front of him.

"I'm stuck on the inside of the booth," she tells him plainly. "Go get me a refill."

"What am I, your slave?" Jim asks, but he grabs her empty glass and slides out of the booth that the four of them are sitting in.

"Hey, Kirk," the bartender says with a leering smile. "Didn't know you were into those types of drinks."

"I'm not. I'm just the servant for tonight, I guess. One Betazoid Blitz, please."

"Coming right up."

Jim loiters at the bar for only a minute before Nyota's drink is handed over to him, and then he has to navigate through the growing crowd without spilling the drink all over some unfortunate soul. The bar is getting busier as the night goes on, and the four of them will probably leave and go hang out in Gaila and Nyota's room soon.

"Thank you, sirrah," Nyota says primly when he sets her drink down in front of her.

"Sirrah?" Jim demands. "Sirrah? More like sir-fuck you."

Nyota bursts out laughing and covers her face with her hands, her shoulders jerking. If Jim didn't know any better, he might think that her mirth is not mirth, but tears instead.

"Linguists," Bones mutters to Gaila. "What the hell does sirrah mean?"

"Don't ask me," she tells him. "Standard isn't even my first language."

"I'm not a linguist, Bones," Jim reminds him.

"Maybe not, but your head's stuffed full of enough useless knowledge and knowledge of languages that you could probably become one if you just took one more class."

"I take great offense to that," Nyota says. "Methinks that command track cadets should stick to command track courses."

"Methinks that the lady is dry," Jim comments.

"Not with this drink in me, I'm not."

Jim tosses his hands up into the air. "Does no one read Shakespeare anymore?"

"I read _Twelfth Night_ once in my sophomore year, if that's what you're referring to," Nyota says as she takes a long drink of her Betazoid Blitz.

"Uncultured," Jim mutters, shaking his head. "All of you, uncultured."

Jim decides on one rainy Tuesday that it would be an excellent idea if he were to meet Gaila after her computer programming class. Normally they meet at a restaurant for lunch afterwards, but Jim's class has let out early and he doesn't feel like sitting at an empty table for however long it'll take for her to get her green butt all the way there.

In the hallway, he leans with his back pressed against the wall next to the door and one ankle crossed over the other. He peers out at the overcast sky, a heavy gray blanket that sits atop the whole city. Raindrops hover in beads on the window for a while before sliding down in a narrow stream, stopping and starting and stopping again. Jim watches them to amuse himself, making meaningless bets on which of two raindrops will make it down the window the fastest.

The class finally lets out, and Jim watches the flow of cadets as they rush from the classroom but he doesn't see the face he's looking for. It's kind of hard to miss, being bright green and all. Jim frowns and pushes himself off of the wall, then leans into the doorway so that he can see some of the classroom.

Ah, there are those green legs, up at the front of the room. She's speaking to the professor, presumably, but whoever she's talking to is outside of Jim's field of vision, limited by a doorframe and a wall.

She's not looking at him, so Jim decides to sneak down the stairs onto the floor of the small lecture-hall type classroom, each seat fitted with a state of the art computer monitor. He doesn't really see the teacher, he's so focused on Gaila, but just as he comes within a few feet of her she says, "Thank you, professor," which thankfully means that Jim doesn't have to loiter in the background of their conversation.

"Cadet," the professor says to her as a polite parting. Then to Jim, "May I help you, Cadet?"

Jim finally looks up at the professor, a Vulcan with black hair styled in the standard hideous bowl cut that he somehow makes attractive. His eyes are remarkably bright, though, despite being brown. Jim doesn't know how to describe it, but looking into those eyes he feels frozen, he feels complete, he feels like he doesn't need anything else in the world.

His marks are burning like laundry a little too fresh out of the dryer, like a dark porch chair on a summer day, like cookies that haven't been allowed to cool quite long enough.

"Oh," Jim breathes.

"Would..." The Vulcan professor,  _Spock_ , closes his mouth for a second before opening it and trying again. "Would your name happen to be James, Cadet?"

"It would, yeah," Jim says, his voice sounding a little dumb even to his own ears. "Uh, would yours happen to be Spock?"

"It would."

"No," Gaila says, a mix between a gasp and an annoyed declaration. "No, Jimmy, you are _not_ soulmates with my computer science professor."

"I mean, uh..." Jim can't tear his eyes away from Spock's face, the awed shine of his eyes, the slight parting of his beautiful lips in shock. "Uh..."

"I have a class in twenty minutes that I must prepare for," Spock says abruptly, pulling his eyes from Jim's face, although his gaze flickers back again and again, as if he can't quite bring himself to not be looking at Jim. "If you were to give me your personal frequency, however, we could perhaps arrange another meeting."

"Yeah," Jim says, kicking himself as he speaks for not being more eloquent. "Yeah, of course, totally."

So this is the man who will kill him?

Jim ponders over that fact while Spock walks to his desk and grabs his PADD. Here's the man who will love him more than anything, the man who will end his life. It doesn't make sense; Vulcans are pacifists. In fact, that almost makes it worse, because he knows that it's going to have to be an accident. It's going to be unintentional.

It might just kill Spock, too.

"Here," Spock says, handing him the PADD. It's open to a new contact screen.

Jim takes the PADD and contemplates writing 'soulmate' with a heart emoji as his contact name. He dismisses the idea almost instantly, though, and writes a simple 'Jim' instead.

"So you'll text me?" Jim asks. "Considering I don't have your number."

"I will text you," Spock agrees. "Now if you will excuse me, I must hurry if I am to be on time."

"Yeah, of course." Jim gestures for the door. "Don't keep your students waiting."

Jim and Gaila watch silently as Spock gets all the way to the door before turning back around and offering a slightly stilted, "Have a good day."

"You too," Jim replies to an empty doorframe, and wonders if he's half in love already.


	2. Salutations

Spock does text, just like he said he would, although by the time he does Jim has almost forgotten about their meeting in the hectic aftermath of a particularly difficult string theory assignment. He's sitting in his room, to which Bones has yet to return today, and is watching some mindless television to wind himself down. Jim doesn't know why he's surprised when his PADD lights up with a text from an unknown number that reads,  _Hello, Jim. This is Spock._

_Hey, Spock,_ Jim replies, unsure of exactly how to talk to his newly-discovered soulmate.  _How are you?_

_I am well, and you?_

_Oh, I'm fine._ He sends it, and then types and sends another message.  _I'm sure that you didn't think you'd be meeting me today, huh?_

_You are correct. I was quite reasonably shocked._

_Shocked?_ Jim frowns.  _Good shocked, right?_

_Yes_ , Spock replies a little quickly,  _the shock was pleasant._

_Good. It was the same for me. I never expected I'd meet you here._

_Your shock is understandable; it is not common to find a Vulcan in Starfleet._

_As much as I'm enjoying talking to you, I'm about to fall asleep mid-text_ , Jim types, blinking hard to keep his tired eyes from sliding shut.  _Why don't we meet somewhere?_

_I urge you to rest, then. I am amenable to the suggestion of meeting. Do you recommend any specific locations?_

Jim thinks of he places he normally eats, and doesn't think that any of them would suit a Vulcan palette. He frowns and types,  _I can't think of any that I'm positive are Vulcan-friendly. You can choose. What times work for you?_

_I am free tomorrow between 1130 and 1300. Would that work for you?_

_Yeah, that could work. How about we meet at twelve? One of my classes gets out at 1145._

_That is agreeable. I will send you the name of the restaurant tomorrow._

_Alright. Goodnight then, Spock._

_Goodnight, Jim._

Jim sets the PADD down and rubs tiredly at his eyes. Despite his exhaustion and anxiety, he can't help the wide smile that breaks across his face. He's going to really meet his soulmate tomorrow, have a conversation that's more than a few seconds long and not stalled by shock.

Sure, his soulmate is eventually going to kill him, but that doesn't mean that he can't savor and enjoy every second of their time together before then. He plans to do just that, to savor every moment that they have together with a passion and put the anxiety out of his mind the best he can.

The door slides open and Bones shuffles into their room, bleary-eyed and haggard. Jim grins at him as he pushes himself to his feet.

"Evening, sunshine," Jim quips, slapping Bones on the shoulder on his way to the bathroom. "How was your day?"

Bones grunts as he kicks his shoes off, both hitting the wall with twin dull thumps.

"Mine was great, thanks for asking," Jim says loudly enough for Bones to hear him as he grabs and wets his toothbrush. "I met my soulmate."

There's a tripping thud, and then Bones whirls around into the doorframe of the bathroom. His eyes are wide, and his hair is just messed up enough that he looks a little wild.

"What?"

"I met my soulmate," Jim repeats, the words slightly warped around the toothbrush.

"That's—" Bones blinks a couple times, like he's still trying to process the information. "That's great, kid. You gonna room with him next year? I didn't even know that there were any Vulcan cadets."

Jim spits and says, "Oh, that's because there aren't. He's a professor."

Bones blinks, his face falling lax with shock. "A professor Spock? You don't mean  _that_ Professor Spock, do you?"

_"_ _That_ professor?" Jim parrots. "I didn't realize he was a _'_ _that_ professor.'"

"Christ on a bike, kid, he's only the most feared professor on campus. You wouldn't know, of course, since you're command track, but the horror stories I've heard from my nurses alone who have taken one of his science classes..."

"Yeah, Gaila has him. That's how I met him in the first place. She likes him, though."

"That's how it is. Cadets either love him or are scared shitless of him."

Jim shrugs. "He seemed nice enough. Almost..." Jim pauses and smiles. "Almost sweet, in a quirky sort of way, you know?"

"No," Bones says, sounding a little horrified, "I don't. I've never met him. Also, do you have any idea how insane it is that you're describing a Vulcan as 'sweet?'"

"Fuck off and go to bed, old man," Jim says without heat. "I'm sure you'll meet him eventually."

"It'd just better not be in your bed," Bones grumbles.

Jim feels a little bad for messaging Nyota in the middle of the night, but only because he knows he woke her up.

_Nyota,_ he sends,  _I'm in desperate need of your all-knowing advice. This is a serious scenario that I'm not equipped to deal with on my own._

Her response is a,  _What the hell, Jim, I was sleeping. Like normal people._

_As per my last message_ _,_ Jim replies, like the cheeky asshole he is,  _this is a serious scenario that I'm not equipped to deal with on my own._

_Fine, goddamn it. What do you want?_

_Can I come over?_

_Can you come over???? It's TWO IN THE MORNING, Jim._

_I know._

There's a suspicious pause before Nyota sends a quick,  _Fine. Hurry your ass up._

Jim is at her door in under ten minutes, and he's hardly knocked before the door slides open to reveal Nyota, in her pajamas and looking pissed. Her eyes have even gone all squinty.

"Hi," he says.

"Shut up and get in."

He steps into her room and asks, "Where's Gaila?"

"'Studying' with a Denobulan from her CompSci class."

"Ah." Jim flops on to Gaila's bed. "So I have a conundrum."

"And what is this conundrum?" Nyota asks, sitting down cross-legged on her bed. "Is it really important enough to necessitate waking me up at what-the-fuck o'clock in the morning?"

"Yes." Jim stares determinedly at the ceiling, but he cant help glancing over at Nyota to see how she'll react. "So, I met my soulmate today. Yesterday. Whatever."

"Oh," Nyota says, all hostility fading from her features. She even breaks into a smile. "That's wonderful, Jim!"

"Yeah," Jim says unenthusiastically. Nyota frowns. "See, the thing is—" Jim lets out an aggravated huff and turns his face back to the ceiling. There's a couple of neon green glow-in-the-dark stars above Gaila's bed, not organized in any pattern that Jim recognizes. He wonders if they're constellations visible from Orion. "I have one name on my body."

"Well... that's good," Nyota says. She sounds confused. "That's not a conundrum."

"I have one name on my body," Jim repeats, and then elaborates, "in two places."

There's a long, long silence before Nyota breathes, "Oh, Jim."

"It's— I got that tattoo for a reason," Jim says. "What am I supposed to do? Accept my death? Tell him and have him pull away from me? How am I supposed to go forward from here? I thought I'd have more time to figure this out."

"I don't know." Nyota sits down on the side of Gaila's bed and leans over Jim until he has to look at her. Her face is a curious mix of horror and sympathy. "I... I don't think that this has ever happened before."

"I don't want to die," Jim whispers. "I don't want him to kill me. It might kill him, too."

"I wish I could help," Nyota tells him. "I really wish I could help you, Jim. All I can tell you to do is what you feel is right."

"That was no help at all," Jim needles, and then gives her a more sincere, "Thanks."

Nyota grabs Jim's hand and squeezes it tightly. Jim can't bear to look her in the face, so he looks back up at the Orion constellations dotting the ceiling above him and squeezes back just as tight.

Spock is just as beautiful the second time Jim sees him as he was the first time. Jim enters the small cafe that Spock picked out for lunch, rushed but barely half a minute late; he had forgotten to account for time needed to change into casual clothes. Spock is standing just a little awkwardly near the door, obviously waiting. The midday San Fran sunshine catches in his hair and makes it shine almost blue, like a raven's feathers. He's wearing slacks and a somewhat bulky, homemade-looking sweater. It's a heathery purple-gray that compliments all of Spock's features spectacularly.

Jim thinks he forgets to breathe for a second as the awe of seeing such sheer beauty tingles down his spine, knocks a hole in his chest.

Spock's eyes snap to the door when it opens, and Jim swears that he can see his posture become just a little less stiff when Spock identifies him. He feels a little underdressed now in just some jeans, boots, and a nicer blue shirt that Gaila once said compliments his eyes.

"Hey," Jim says as he comes to stand next to Spock.

"Hello," Spock replies. "Do you need a moment to decide what you would like to eat, or can we enter the line now?"

Jim looks at the line, just three people—Nope. Two, now— deep. He glances at the unfamiliar menu.

"I might need a second to look," he says awkwardly.

"Then we will wait." Spock doesn't seem annoyed by the inconvenience, but Jim doesn't think he'd broadcast it even if he was.

The menu is... very healthy. Jim can hear Bones snickering, can hear his voice saying, 'Well what'd you expect, kid?' Jim looks for something that sparks his interest on the menu posted above the ordering station. The menu even extends farther down to where a few people are milling about and waiting to get their food. For such a small place, there's a surprising amount of items.

Finally, Jim's gaze lands on half of a chicken salad sandwich with a side of hummus and chips. He nods a little to himself, decision made, and skips his gaze to the panel with drink options. There are a wide variety of smoothies, and Jim eyes the blueberry, spinach, and peach smoothie but decides to get a mango pineapple smoothie instead.

"Alright," Jim says. "I know what I want."

They step into the line, which has grown to five people. Jim shoved his hands in his pockets and tries to break the slightly stilted silence.

"So where are you from?" he asks. "I know you're from Vulcan, obviously, but like, where specifically?"

"I am from ShiKahr."

"Oh, cool. That's where the VSA is, right?"

Spock gives him an odd look and says, "Affirmative. Not very many Humans know exactly where the Vulcan Science Academy is located."

Jim shrugs, feeling his cheeks burn just a bit, and says, "I just like learning, I guess. I'm curious about a lot of things."

"Your curiosity did not lead you towards the sciences?"

"Nah." Jim screws up his nose. "I mean, sure, science is cool and all that, but if I'm going to be on a starship I'm sure as hell not going to spend all that time in space in a lab. I want to explore, to have a ship of my own."

"I have never been particularly drawn to command," Spock says to him, "but I believe that I can understand your point of view."

Before Jim can think of an appropriate response, because Spock hasn’t exactly left many avenues for continuing their conversation open, Spock speaks again.

"Where are you from, Jim?"

Jim shrugs and says, "Oh, just Iowa," because there's really nothing important about Riverside except for the shipyard, but Spock seems genuinely curious.

"I have never had the occasion to visit Iowa," he tells Jim, entirely sincere. "What is it like?"

"Uh..." Jim looks for fitting words. "Flat, I guess. Lots of corn, not a lot of things for a kid to do. It got pretty cold in the winter since there was no giant body of water nearby to help regulate temperatures."

"It sounds..." Spock fails to find an adjective, and Jim smiles.

"Don't worry; you can say it sounds awful. It was."

"I would not go so far as to say 'awful,'" Spock protests mildly, but he doesn't provide any alternative words.

"So what was ShiKahr like?" Jim asks, smiling. "Hot, I'm assuming?"

"For a Human, yes, it was very hot."

"And for a Vulcan?"

"It was... pleasant. I particularly enjoyed what was the equivalent of spring."

"Yeah?" Jim asks, his heart fluttering at the nostalgic warmth in Spock's tone. "I know even deserts get rain; how often did it rain on Vulcan?"

"Approximately once every two solar years." Spock's eyes are distant, filled with scarlet sands that Jim can't see. "Vulcan children were permitted to play outside in the rain when we were young."

"Were you?" Jim can't stop smiling, feeling sickeningly besotted. "That sounds fun."

"They were always... very exciting days." Spock looks over at Jim. "Did you ever play in the rain as a child?"

"Oh, no." Jim shakes his head and laughs. "I've never had a great immune system. It would make me sick."

"Hi, welcome to Jive's, how can I help you guys?" the young woman behind the counter chirps.

"Hi," Jim smiles at her. "I'll have half of a chicken salad sandwich with the side of hummus and chips."

"Any drinks?"

"A small mango pineapple smoothie."

"Anything else?"

"I will have the arugula, apple, and walnut salad and a water with lemon," Spock says.

"Sure thing. Anything else?"

"No, that'll be it."

"What's the name of the order?"

"Spock," Spock says.

"Alright then, that'll be twenty-three credits. You guys can go wait down at the pickup station. Have a nice day!"

"You too." Jim flashes her another smile.

"Is there a reason that you have a weak immune system?" Spock asks while they wait by the pickup station.

"It's got something to do with the radiation from the _Kelvin's_ explosion." Jim shrugs like he hasn't just laid that out there.

Spock looks at him and says, sounding slightly shocked, "You are James Kirk?"

"I am." Jim fights the anxiety that rises in him. He's never been particularly proud of his name, never enjoyed the attention and pity it's brought. He has no clue what Spock might think now that he knows who Jim is.

_Pull it together,_ he tells himself firmly.  _He's your soulmate. It'll be fine._

"Ah. I was aware that you were attending the Academy, but never previously had a chance to meet you. Captain Pike speaks very highly of you."

"Pike speaks highly of me?" Jim says, giving Spock an incredulous look.

"He does. He seems to see you as a protege of sorts."

"A prot—" Jim scoffs and shakes his head. "Are you sure were talking about the same Captain Pike? The Captain Pike who scooped me up off of a bar floor and dared me to enlist in Starfleet?"

"Captain Christopher Pike, who will take command of the  _USS Enterprise_ when she is completed," Spock affirms.

"Wow."

"Why do you seem surprised?" Spock asks.

Jim thinks of his lack of proper, strong father figures growing up, how his teachers had been so exasperated with him that they’d never encouraged his intellectual growth. He thinks of Sam's annoyed calls and Winona shaking her head in disappointment.

"I guess I've just never had anyone who's been so invested in my academics and my potential before," Jim admits. “I mean, we haven’t even really spoken since I enlisted.”

"He is an excellent man, Captain Pike."

Jim nods. "Yeah. He is."

"Hey," Jim says abruptly during their third date. They're wandering around Golden Gate Park, and when their arms brush it sends sparks racing up Jim's spine. "Thank you for doing the whole dating thing. I know it's not exactly in the Vulcan custom."

"My mother instilled in me from the day that I turned ten that, since my soulmate was Human, I would need to engage in Human courtship rituals." Spock looked over at Jim, his gaze soft. Jim could hardly reconcile the horror stories he'd heard of Spock with the absolute sweetheart walking beside him.

"I assume that you have a betrothed, though?" Jim asks.

"I do. I assure you that once our relationship has matured to the point where we desire to marry, the betrothal will be annulled." Something shadowed flickered across Spock's face. "She will have no objections to being rid of me."

"Being rid of you?" Jim demands. "What does that mean? You're a catch, man, and anyone who would gladly 'be rid of you' is an idiot."

Spock gives Jim a look that could very well be considered warm and is, by Vulcan standards, exceedingly sappy.

"I was bullied by my peers throughout my childhood," Spock confesses quietly. "I was not 'Vulcan enough' for any of them, and T'Pring was... far less than pleased to have been bonded to me."

"Fuck that," Jim declares. "Fuck her, fuck them."

"Jim..."

"No," Jim says, shaking his head vehemently. "You don't get to act all meek and bashful about this. You are tall, and you're handsome, and you're smart as hell, and you're— you're— you're just  awesome."

"You are biased," Spock counters.

"Maybe, but that doesn't mean that I'm wrong."

In an attempt to emphasize his point, Jim unthinkingly reaches out and grabs Spock's hand. He squeezes tight, and then recalls with a shock of horror that Vulcan hands are sensitive erogenous zones.

"Shit," he says, and yanks his hand out of Spock's. He can feel a hot flush creeping across his entire face. "Shit, Spock, I'm so sorry, shi—"

"Jim," Spock says, cutting him off. There's a fetching olive green blush spreading across his face, too, just a dusting high on his cheekbones and coloring the tips of his ears. "You have no reason to apologize. As my soulmate you are... welcome to touch me."

"Oh," Jim breathes, a smile fighting its way into his face. "Okay."

Spock holds out the first two fingers of his hand, palm up. Jim hesitates for a moment but mirrors the gesture, brushing his fingers against Spock's. He trails them gently down to the bottom of Spock's fingers, just above the palm, before dragging them back up.

They've stopped walking.

Spock's blush has extended, splotching his cheeks and shading his entire ears. Careful study of his chest reveals that he's breathing a little oddly. Jim can relate; he feels like his heart is skipping in his chest, like his lungs are seizing and refusing to take in enough air. Just the simple meeting of their fingers is dizzying.

"You are... very adept at kissing, at least in the Vulcan style," Spock finally says. His eyes are so, so dark, locked on Jim's. he can't escape.

There's nobody around, so Jim gives Spock an unsteady smile and says breathlessly, "Why don't we examine my skills at the Human way?"

"It would only be proper," Spock says, his voice shaking just so.

Jim gently places his hand on the back of Spock's neck and pulls him into a kiss, his other hand resting on Spock's waist. Spock's hands flutter up to rest on Jim's upper arms, like he's concerned about where he's allowed to put them.

Spock's lips are soft against his own, and they open easily to the gentle demand of Jim's mouth. Spock tastes like that Vulcan spice tea he loves and faintly of the gross, replicated oatmeal that the Starfleet messes serve. He shivers under Jim's touch, his fingers flexing spasmodically against Jim's arm as he begins to kiss back, to press himself into Jim.

Jim pulls back after a dizzying minute, and Spock's eyes reflect perfectly everything that Jim is feeling. He feels a little like he might fall over if Spock lets him go.

"You are—“ Spock clears his throat as he stands up taller, composing himself. "You are a skilled Human kisser as well."

Jim smiles softly at Spock and reaches out to loop their arms together. "So are you."

"I'm going to die," Jim moans. "Finals are going to kill me, they really are."

"That's what your arm says?" Bones asks from his own desk, where he looks just as terrible as Jim feels.

Together, the two of them have consumed nineteen coffees since waking up. It's currently four in the morning, and Jim has been awake for twenty-two hours. Jim doesn't think he's processed anything he's read in the past fifteen minutes, and he can't feel his face.

"Yes," Jim declares. "More specifically, it says 'Professor Jones.'"

"Ah. I see. I'll mourn you when you're gone."

"Thanks."

Bones suddenly huffs and says, sounding frustrated, "Alright, I can't read anything more about the cardiovascular system of Bajorans without my eyeballs melting out of my head, so how's your relationship with Professor Doom going?"

_"Spock_ is fine." Jim tips his head over the back of the chair and sighs happily when his poor, abused spine pops audibly in several places. Bones makes a disgusted sound. "We went on another date yesterday. He got corn flavored ice cream, of all things."

"He got what?"

"It was actually pretty good," Jim muses. "I tried some. It was even better with cinnamon."

"I—“ Bones sputters. "I'm speechless."

"Don't be too proud of me for eating healthy ice cream, I ordered rocky road with marshmallow sauce."

"And there it is," Bones sighs. "So how have your dates been going?"

"Good," Jim admits, sitting back upright because he can feel his pulse in his head and he's sure that his whole face is bright red with blood rush. "They've been going really good. Spock's been really considerate with the whole dating thing, since courtship isn't really in the Vulcan culture." Jim laughs. "Thank fuck his mom is Human and could advise him."

"How many times have you banged by now?" Bones asks. "I mean, this seems like an immovable force versus unbreakable wall situation. Jim Kirk’s sex drive versus Vulcan propriety.”

"Rude," Jim scoffs. "We haven't 'banged' once. We have a balance between Human and Vulcan norms in our relationship, which means we're taking it slow by Human standards.”

"Uh huh."

"We are," Jim insists. "I'm sure as hell not going to do anything as intimate as form a permanent mental bond with someone who I hardly know anything about, and he's not going to throw his Vulcan reservation to the wind and jump into bed with me just because my name is on his chest."

Just the thought of bonding with Spock is enough to cause anxious nausea to twist Jim's stomach. Bonded couples see _everything_ about the other, or so Spock said when they were discussing bonds a few weeks back. If they were to bond... Spock would see.

"Alright, alright," Bones says, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. "I've got it."

"I think your brain actually _is_ melting," Jim informs him, his heart still beating just a little too fast. It could be the coffee; Jim doesn't think it is.

Bones sighs. "It just might be, kid. It just might be."

"I would like for you to meet my mother," Spock informs him abruptly.

They're sitting on the couch in Spock's small but not cramped apartment. Spock is reading a scientific article, with finals done and no papers left to grade. An open window lets in breezy summer air, and Jim is content to just sit by Spock and enjoy the moment.

Well, he had been, anyway.

"Your mother?" Jim says, trying desperately to keep his cool. "Your— like, your  _mother_ mother?"

"Indeed." Spock blinks at him. "Is that an issue?"

"No," Jim says, "not really, but... I don't know. I've don't really know how to act around moms— any of them. Mine wasn't ever exactly around."

"That is greatly unfortunate." Spock links the pinkie of his right hand with Jim's left in the bizarre little kiss/hand-holding gesture they've developed to subtly and appropriately show their affection for one another. "However, your anxieties are useless in this situation. My mother will be... greatly pleased to meet you."

"But— But what am I supposed to say? What if I fuck up and she hates me? Your mom can't hate me, Spock."

"Jim." Spock gently flexes his pinkie in a gesture akin to a comforting squeeze of the hand. "All that you must do is be yourself. I assure you that she will love you greatly just as you are."

Spock's console begins to ring, on his desk in his bedroom.

"Please tell me that that's not your mom," Jim moans.

"It would be a lie."

"Spooooooock."

"If you do not wish to speak to her at this juncture, I will not force you to," Spock says. He seems oddly stiff, and a little like he's been gravely offended.

It takes a moment for Jim to register why that might be, and when he realizes why Spock seems stiff and uplight, he squeezes Spock's pinkie as he rushes desperately to reassure his partner.

"No, no, it's not that I don't want to talk to her, Spock. I do, I promise. I'm just worried is all."

"I must answer her call," Spock says, standing. "If you do not feel that you are yet ready to meet her, then you do not have to."

Jim sighs and Spock disappears into his bedroom. Moments later he hears the chirp of a connecting call and Spock's voice saying, "Hello, mother."

"Spock, how are you?" Spock's mother says warmly. Her fondness for her son seeps from her voice like molasses from a cracked jar, sweeter than anything. "Oh, it's been too long."

"It has been 2.783 weeks, mother."

"Yes, and that's been too long."

Jim stands and creeps to the doorway of Spock's room. Spock's face is soft in the light from his console, and Jim knows him well enough to know that he's incredibly happy to be speaking with his mother.

"If that is what you believe, then I will endeavor to speak to you more often."

"You'd better. Tell me, how's that Jim of yours doing?"

Spock's eyes dart over to Jim. "He is well."

"He's here, too," Jim says, stepping towards the desk so that he's standing behind Spock, in full view of the console. He flashes Amanda a smile to hide his worry.

She's a beautiful woman, and despite the whole Vulcan thing Spock actually looks a great deal like her. Her long brown hair is pulled into a braid and loosely covered by a pale orange headscarf. Eyes the exact shade of Spock's glow with warmth, and although her mouth is only quirked into a small smile it's obvious that she's beyond pleased. At the sight of Jim, her smile splits into a larger, toothy one.

"Oh, hello! It's such a pleasure to meet you— May I call you Jim?"

"Of course, and what should I call you?"

"Amanda is perfectly all right."

"Well then, Amanda, it's a pleasure to meet you."

Amanda smiles at him. "I've heard so much about you— only good things, of course."

"Of course."

By the end of their conversation, Jim is wondering why he was ever worried about being disliked by Amanda. She's taken to him like he's just as much her son as Spock is, and Jim wonders if this is what it's like to have a mother.

"She likes me," Jim says to the blank console. Spock shifts in his chair.

"She does. You sound surprised."

Jim shrugs and smiles, bright joy filling his chest until it pushes against his ribs and seeps from his lungs into the air around him. He feels at home with Spock, with Amanda, in this small apartment that's always ten degrees too hot. The hidden brand on his arm isn't even enough to detract from his sheer excitement.

He thinks that this'll be the best thing that ever happens to him. At least until it kills him, anyway.

Jim doesn't even bother going to his dorm when he gets back from survival training. Bones won't be there. Instead, he makes his way to the apartment that he's almost moved into by now.

Spock's home, of course. The summer class he's teaching is early afternoon, and it's past dinnertime now. Jim punches in the password— Spock's mother's birthday, and Jim had cooed when Spock explained it— into the panel by the door and feels tension that he hadn't previously noticed drain from his shoulders at the familiar smell of Spock's apartment.

"Hey, Spock," Jim announces as he strides into the apartment. "I'm home."

"Ashaya." Jim has hardly dropped his bag before Spock is kissing him in both the Human and Vulcan ways, tender touches that only aid Jim's relaxation.

"Glad that I'm back?" Jim murmurs playfully into the kiss.

"Affirmative."

For a few minutes they kiss, slow and sweet enough to melt Jim's insides. Then Jim pulls away just enough to wrap his arms around Spock's neck and sag against him. Spock doesn't protest, just shifts his stance to take on Jim's weight.

"You are tired," Spock observes quietly, his mouth by Jim's ear. Jim sighs and tries to burrow his face further into Spock's neck, taking in the smell of him, the feel of him.

"Mhmm."

"Prepare yourself for bed, ashaya. I will follow you momentarily."

Jim does, and Spock does, and within ten minutes the two of them are under the sheets of Spock's bed together. Jim's skin aches with the want to touch Spock, and so he curls into his soulmate. He tosses an arm over Spock's chest and a leg over Spock's hip, and he makes sure to burrow his face back into Spock's neck before he lets himself slip into heavy slumber.

At one point in the night he wakes up, and they're both in completely different positions. They've somehow twisted into spooning positions, and Jim is tucked up against Spock's front. His Vulcan skin is hot like laundry fresh out of the dryer, the kind of hot that inspires drooping eyelids and lethargic moments until the laundry has cooled. Spock's arm has wound itself around his waist, tugging him close, and the tables have turned in the sense that it's Spock's face now buried in his neck.

"Spock," Jim murmurs.

Spock sighs and squeezes Jim tighter, attempting unconsciously to burrow his face farther into Jim's neck. It's cute, but not what Jim needs or wants.

Jim turns over inside Spock's grip until he's facing Spock, whose eyelids are fluttering. It's awkward, because there's no space between them, but Jim wiggles his arm up to set his hand on Spock's jaw. Spock's breathing rhythm becomes disturbed as he begins to wake up, and as his eyes flutter open Jim presses a gentle kiss to his lips.

"Hey," Jim whispers.

"Hello."

"I missed you so much."

Jim strokes his fingers delicately up and down the rim of Spock's ear, his touch so light that sometimes he's not touching Spock at all. With a warm, trembling sigh Spock turns his head into Jim's hand so that he can press a kiss to the soft, sensitive inside of Jim's wrist.

"I found myself longing for your company as well."

"Well," Jim murmurs, pushing Spock gently on to his back and straddling his waist. "I'm here now."

"You are."

It's sweet and slow, the kind of tender touching that can almost make Jim believe that what they have will be eternal, forever, that they'll grow old and die just like this. Really, Jim thinks absently at one point in the proceedings, when Spock is littering his neck with gentle nipping kisses, it's almost unfortunate that he knows they'll very likely never grow old together. But he pushes that thought to the back of his mind and wraps his arms around Spock when he's gently lowered down and pressed into the mattress.

Afterwards, Jim skirts his mouth across Spock's chest. He enjoys the feeling of the surprisingly coarse chest hair against his lips, and is idly amusing himself with it. Spock's arms are wrapped tightly enough around him that he feels secure, but not so tightly that he feels trapped.

"That was..."

"Amazing?" Jim smirks into Spock's chest.

"Indeed."

"I'm glad you think so." Jim is quiet for a few seconds before he murmurs, "I really did miss you."

"And I you, ashayam."

Spock lets his fingers brush featherlight over Jim's temple. Jim can feel a faint connection sparking between them, can feel just how content Spock is to lay in bed— in _their_ bed—  with Jim in his arms. He wishes that he could get closer to Spock, that he could curl up inside of his soulmate and just sleep there, safe and secure.

"...May I meld us?"

Jim thinks of everything he's ever read about melds, of how they completely expose the two participants to each other. He thinks of knowing everything about Spock, and his heart warms. He thinks of the name hidden under his tattoo, and his blood freezes.

"No," he says. "Not today."

"Very well," Spock says, but Jim feels Spock's fingers twitch against his temple, feels a short surge of distress.

"Maybe another day," Jim offers. Guilt clings to his lungs and the inside of his chest, constricting his breaths.

"Perhaps." Spock still sounds put-off, so Jim readjusts his position so that he can cradle Spock's face in one hand and angle it down to meet his gaze.

"Spock," he says. "I'm not rejecting a meld because I don't love you." His heart thunders at the declaration, but he knows that it's true. "I'm rejecting a meld because I'm just not ready yet. You said yourself that they're intensely personal; I'm... I'm a little broken in that aspect. I need to fix myself before I can let you meld us, because I want it to be something special. Something perfect."

Jim watches all of Spock's misgivings vanish like dew, and Spock even comes close to smiling just a little as he tucks Jim back into his chest. Jim tries to ignore his relief at the dodging of another bullet and curls as closely as he can to the chest of his lover, his soulmate, his killer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry it’s taking so long to update, I just got back from a writing camp and will be leaving in just a couple days for another week away. Chapter four is giving me a lot of grief and turning out to be way longer than I thought it would be, so I might split it into two or three parts, but in any case I’ll be sure to get it done! I hope you enjoy this chapter!


	3. Dive

Jim discovers that Spock celebrates Hanukkah when he comes back from classes one day— He's moved in with Spock, and Bones has a new roommate now who he complains about all the time but is secretly fond of— and finds a menorah on the dining room table. It's a silver color, and discolored just enough that it looks like a family heirloom. There aren't any candles in it yet.

"Uh," Jim says intelligently. "What's that?"

"It is a menorah," Spock explains unhelpfully from where he's chopping up vegetables.

"I mean, yeah, I know that. But what's it doing here?"

"My mother is Jewish, and I therefore was raised celebrating the traditional Jewish holidays. I saw no reason to discontinue the tradition once I left home."

"Is it one she gave you?" Jim asks, brushing his fingers gently down one of the external candle holders.

"Affirmative. It has been in her family for centuries. I urged her to keep it, but she refused. It was her insistence that I accept her gift."

"That's... really nice, Spock."

Spock glances over at Jim and asks, "Are you religious? I do not believe that I have ever asked."

"Well, I'm technically Jewish too," Jim says, and shrugs. "I can't remember the last time we actually celebrated, though. I personally am more agnostic."

"I must admit as well that I do not particularly adhere to the principles of Judaism."

"Christmas occurs on the first day of Hanukkah this year, doesn't it?"

"Yes, it does."

Speaking of Christmas reminds Jim of the fact that he's forgotten to get Bones a present, and he groans loudly. Spock stalls in his vegetable chopping and gives him an odd look.

"Are you well?"

"I forgot to get Bones a Christmas present."

"I still have not met Doctor McCoy," Spock remarks.

"It's for the best," Jim mutters, his hands seated on his hips. He bites his lip and tries to figure out what he can get for Bones on such short notice.

"Your comment does not serve to reassure me of your friend's quality."

"He's good quality," Jim says, not really focused on their conversation.

He could get Bones good alcohol, but then he'd have to deal with the issue of smuggling it back onto campus at a time when campus security in on high alert for cadets bringing unlawful goods onto the premises. He could try to set Bones up, but Jim would probably get castrated for meddling in his sex life. He could get him a new shirt, maybe? But that's just dumb, because Bones has enough clothes and isn't going to need more any time soon what with wearing uniforms every day and all.

...If all else fails, get candles, right?

"I'm the worst friend ever," Jim declares to the menorah.

"For what reasons?" Spock asks.

"I forgot about buying Bones a present and now it's too late to get him anything but a candle." He glances down at his PADD. "How long until dinner's ready?"

"Approximately forty minutes."

"Cool. I'm gonna go get Bones a candle, I'll be back for dinner."

"Jim," Spock begins when Jim is feet from the door.

"Yeah?"

"I would be... most gratified... if you were to perhaps participate in Hanukkah with me."

Jim feels himself smile widely at the offer, at the vulnerability that Spock was willing to show him. It's miraculous every time Spock trusts him with something personal or emotional.

"Of course," he says, smiling. "I'd love to, as long as there's latkes."

"Jim," Gaila groans, throwing her arm over his shoulder. "I miss you."

"I haven't gone anywhere," Jim says, puzzled.

"I miss having sex with you," she elaborates.

"Sorry, Gaila, but I'm not cheating on my soulmate to have sex with you."

"I know, I know, you're a changed man. You haven't even had sex in—" Gaila leans in a bit and sniffs at him. "Oh! So you've been getting laid more! Thank goodness, I was so worried after you tow got together and you passed months without any.  _Months_ . Plural!"

"You can smell that?" Jim demands incredulously. "What the fuck?"

"Of course I can smell that, silly. It's all in the pheromones."

"Is that taught in xenobio or are you guys like Vulcans and prefer to keep shit about your biology secret?"

"Vulcans keep things secret?" Gaila asks, gasping in exaggerated shock. "No way!"

"Very funny." Jim rolls his eyes and smirks. "But honest to god, some things I've learned about Vulcan biology..."

"Like what?" Gaila asks, her eyes bright. Her eagerness to acquire any knew knowledge that could help her seduce is obvious from the new bounce in her step and the raise of her eyebrows.

Jim smirks. "Well, I can't tell you. It would violate the trust that Spock has placed in me to keep what he told me a secret."

"Aww, Jimmy, come on," Gaila wheedles. "I can keep a secret!"

Gaila, in reality, can't keep a secret to save her life, so Jim just smiles and shakes his head. She pouts.

"You're no fun."

"I am too," Jim protests, scoffing.

Gaila looks up and her eyes brighten in a way that Jim knows well. She's found herself a future bed partner. Patting Jim firmly on the back, Gaila steps away from him and speedwalks towards her target with no more parting words than: "Well, I've found my bit of fun for the night. See you, Jimmy."

Jim smiles to himself and shakes his head as Gaila approaches a willowy Denobulan cadet. Her bright red curls bounce with her steps and and sway side to side with the cold wind sweeping through the campus.

With the cold, his thoughts drift back to Spock. Whenever the temperature in their apartment gets below 80 Spock gets chilly, and so with it being in the low 20s outside, he has to be freezing even with thermal layers underneath his uniform. Jim frowns, wishing that he could be back in their apartment and curled under the sheets of their bed with Spock.

Spock never looks so content as he does when he's curled up beside Jim under a hefty amount of blankets. At one point, Jim got Spock content enough that a low rumbling began in his chest. Jim had just stared for a moment before setting a hand gently over the center of Spock's chest to feel the vibrations.

"You're purring," he'd breathed.

Spock had pried his eyes open to gaze at Jim and murmured, "Affirmative."

He'd looked so heart-wrenchingly attractive with his hair slightly ruffled and his eyes half-lidded from pure contentment that Jim hadn't known what to do with the wave of affection that stifled his breathing. In the end, Jim had taken Spock's fingers into his mouth and proceeded to completely destroy his carefully cultivated emotional restraint.

Jim comes back to himself when a brutal gust of wind rips the breath from his lungs. Scrunching up his nose to try and cultivate more sensation in the tip of it, Jim proceeds to his next class.

After class Jim finds himself reluctant to leave the warm, windless classroom, but the thought of cocooning himself under blankets in his and Spock's apartment is pleasant enough to draw him from his classroom. He ducks his head and forges ahead quickly to try to return to Spock, and a few eternal minutes later Jim is stepping gratefully into the apartment building with a numb nose and stinging cheeks.

"Spock," Jim announces upon entry to their apartment, "I'm home."

"How was your day, ashaya?" Spock asks, approaching Jim and immediately stroking Jim's cheek with a Vulcan kiss. Jim smiles and turns his head to press a light kiss to Spock's fingertips.

"It was fine. I learned that Orions can smell when a person last had sex because of pheromones."

Spock raises an eyebrow. "I did not know that. Fascinating."

"On a totally unrelated side note, Gaila knows that we actually have sex."

"I see." Spock's tone is dry, but Jim can tell that he's amused.

"How was your day?" Jim asks. He cups the sides of Spock's face and pulls him into a gentle kiss, stroking his ears. "I missed you."

"My day was adequate." Spock leans in and kisses Jim this time, which never fails to make Jim jubilant. "I missed you as well."

"I've been thinking all day about curling up with you," Jim murmurs. Spock's eyes flutter closed as Jim continues to stroke his ears. It's the fastest way to make him purr, Jim has found.

"In our bed?" Spock asks, and Jim's heart just about melts.

"Yeah," he says, smiling in a way that he's sure is goofy. "Yeah, in our bed."

So Jim kicks off of his shoes and socks and then peels off his uniform until he's in standard-issue black boxer-briefs. Spock, too, strips down to his thermal undershirt, pants, and socks before they climb into bed together.

Jim sighs contentedly when Spock's arm comes around his shoulder to tug him close, and takes the opportunity to bury his face into Spock's chest. Spock's so warm, and exists in just the right place between soft and firm. It's the little things that make cuddles pleasing or displeasing, and Spock has all of the right things for Jim.

"You smell nice," Jim mumbles.

"I smell as I always do, ashaya."

"Yeah. Nice."

"If you insist."

Jim trails fingers across the smooth fabric of Spock's thermal undershirt and says quietly enough that he's not certain if Spock will hear him, "What's a mind meld like?"

Spock stills under him for a moment, and Jim's unsure if it's good or bad. "It is an extremely intimate joining of two individuals. While the meld can lead to a bond, in which case the meld would be complete and nothing of us would be hidden from the other, there exist also surface melds and deeper melds that do not create bonds."

"So we could meld without you seeing everything in my head?"

"Affirmative."

Jim looks up at Spock and asks, hushed, "Can we meld?”

Spock's eyes glitter with joy. "Of course."

Jim closes his eyes to try and vanquish his illogical fear as Spock's hand migrates hesitantly towards his face. The pads of Spock's fingers are soft and warm, and Jim sighs as Spock murmurs, "My mind to your mind, my thoughts to your thoughts," and then—

_Spock's beautiful, his essence alive with greens and blues and the colors are cold but he's so, so warm. He swirls around Jim, coaxes him forward to where their minds meet and intermix like paint, nebulous borders shifting with every second. Jim is in awe, because he's never experienced anything quite like this, like there's another presence in his body that wants only to love and cherish him, like he's in someone else's body wanting to hold and protect them. He can feel a warm chest under his face, and he can feel a head resting on his chest._

_Jim is lured into Spock's mind, nebulous shades that remind Jim of Earth from space. Misty tendrils coax him further until he emerges into what looks like a large warehouse made of plexiglass to let in the view of the Vulcan desert beyond. Each aisle is stacked high on both sides with clear, clouded boxes. Jim can see movement inside each of the boxes, like a film._

_**These are my memories.** _

_It's all so organized. Jim looks around at all of the rows and finds only the same precise order throughout the entire building. He's awestruck by the mental skill it must take to have a mind like Spock's._

_Spock's blushing warmth follows him as he meanders through the aisles, peering at memories. A great many of them feature faces looking down at him— at Spock._

**Younger memories?**

_**Yes.** _

_Spock's presence, the marbled hues of life, leads him through the warehouse. They pass aisle upon aisle, and as they pass them Jim tries to peek at the memories. A rough pattern begins to emerge, and a theory blooms._

**Aisles— years?**

_**Yes, ashaya.** _

_Jim can feel everything, can feel Spock's amusement at his valiant attempts to communicate in the meld and his pure, steady love. It's almost like a feedback loop; feeling Spock's love makes Jim fill with a love that Spock can sense, and so Spock once more projects his love. It's hardly a negative cycle, and in truth Jim's overjoyed by it._

_They keep going, past more and more aisle. Jim catches glimpses of Spock's childhood, overwhelmingly featuring a brunette Human with a radiant smile. The prevalence of Spock's mother in his memories makes Jim bubble with happiness. With all that Jim knows that Spock's been through, he deserves to have had a mother like Amanda to pull him through._

**Where going?**

_**We are going to you, James.** _

_They finally turn into an aisle and peruse the shelves until Jim spies a memory cube of bright blue eyes. He reaches out for it, although he sees no fingers, no body, and falls into Spock's memory._

_There is a figure in a cadet's uniform creeping down the stairs to the front of the lecture hall. Despite his curiosity, Spock recalls his mother's teachings about proper protocols for conversations with non-Vulcans and keeps his focus on Cadet Vro._

_"Thank you, professor," she says when the figure is only feet behind her. Spock doesn't quite know what the person looks like yet, because he has not looked away from Cadet Vro to examine them, but he can tell that they're not Orion or Andorian based solely on the fact that they are certainly not blue or green._

_"Cadet," Spock says, nodding his head to end their conversation. Finally, he can look at the newcomer, and as he does he says, "May I help you, Cadet?"_

_Spock subsequently finds himself frozen still as he takes in the— Human, blond— cadet with striking blue eyes. The Human's eyes widen upon looking at Spock, his plump, pink lips falling slightly apart. The Human looks awed._

_The Human's eyes are astoundingly blue, and they draw Spock in like the oceanic phenomena of riptides that he has read about. He does not think that he has ever seen eyes so perfectly, preternaturally blue. The eyes scream of nourishment, love, security, completion. For a moment doesn't believe that he could ever need anything other than to remain with this Human for all eternity, and in his captivation he almost misses the fact that the skin over his heart is burning._

_"Oh," the cadet breathes at length._

_"Would..." Spock's throat feels entirely unable to produce words, and he has to close his mouth for a moment before he makes a fool of himself. "Would your name happen to be James, Cadet?"_

_"It would, yeah," the cadet— James, his soulmate, his future— says. His voice is slightly unsteady. "Uh, would yours happen to be Spock?"_

_"It would."_

_"No," Cadet Vro gasps on an exhale. "No, Jimmy, you are_ not _soulmates_ with my computer science professor."

_"I mean, uh..." James has not pulled his gaze from Spock's, and Spock is pleased by this because he can't find it in himself to pull his gaze from James' either. "Uh..."_

_"I have a class in twenty minutes that I must prepare for," Spock announces abruptly, his Vulcan upbringing demanding that he stop acting like a love-stricken fool and return to reality. He glances at Cadet Vro, who looks pleased and scandalized in equal measure, but he can't help that his eyes want nothing more than to return to James' face. "If you were to give me your personal frequency, however, we could perhaps arrange another meeting."_

_"Yeah," James says, still obviously as stunned as Spock feels. "Yeah, of course, totally."_

_Spock walks to his desk on legs that feel too unsteady for his liking and retrieves his PADD, wondering all the while how his mother will react. She has always been very protective of him, and will want to ensure that James is 'good enough' for him. Looking at James as Spock returns to him, though, he isn't sure how she could possibly think that James isn't perfect._

_"Here." Spock hands over the PADD, open to a new contact screen._

_James types in his information and passes it back to Spock with a soft light in his eyes. "So you'll text me? Considering I don't have your number."_

_"I will text you. Now if you will excuse me, I must hurry if I am to be on time."_

_"Yeah, of course." James gesticulates aimlessly in the direction of the lecture hall's door. "Don't keep your students waiting."_

_In the doorway, Spock turns and offers a, "Have a good day," because his mother raised him with a knowledge of Human manners and would be appalled if he forgot them._

_"You too," he thinks he hears Jim respond as he sweeps down the hallway._

_He is uncertain of what, precisely, the horrifically un-Vulcan emotions swirling in his side are, but he thinks that they might compose something like love._

_Jim is elated upon the conclusion of the memory and his subsequent ejection into the ordered aisles of Spock's mind._

**Beautiful mind.**

_ **Thank you.** There's a flash of hesitation, like Spock is unsure if his next words will be met positively.  **May I see yours?** _

Jim's a tad hesitant, but he loves and trusts Spock, so:  **Yes.**

_There's a gentle whooshing sound like wind cutting through thin branches, and then they're floating in a spectacularly colored nebula. Jim can actually see Spock here, in a physical form. He's wearing the meditation robes that Jim loves so much, and at the sight of their surroundings Spock's lips twitch into a small smile._

_"Your mind is... radiant," Spock says._

_"Radiant?" Jim looks around at their surroundings, a fractured shell of rainbows that reminds Jim of a kaleidoscope. The primary color is yellow, but the other colors certainly aren't underrepresented. It's pretty enough, although it’s nothing like Spock’s ordered mind._

_"Radiant. Your mind is uniquely dynamic."_

_"It's a mess," Jim complains, and watches an orb float past them. It reminds him of water in zero-gravity, but Jim can see that within it resides a childhood memory of endless Iowan fields._

_"It is Human, and it is beautiful," Spock assures him. "Your mind is organized, even if it is not organized in the way that my mind is. Over there-" Spock points, and Jim twists to see the group of orbs that Spock is pointing at, all clung together like soap bubbles. "-are general memories of the Academy, and they are positioned next to groups of memories related to those who you have met and befriended at the Academy, such as Cadet Vro."_

_"Call her Gaila," Jim pleads for at least the fiftieth time. "You sound too professor-y when you say that."_

_"Over there is a group of memories related to your mother," Spock continues as if he hasn't heard Jim. "There-" He stops and blinks._

_Jim turns to follow his gaze and nearly chokes on a tidal wave of anxiety when he sees a small group of orbs clouded by gray. He knows exactly what's under the discoloring sheen, and knows that he doesn't want Spock anywhere near those at all._

_"I apologize," Spock says. "That section of memories causes you great distress."_

_"Yeah," Jim says. "Let's... Let's just ignore those." He spots some bright memories, gold and glowing, and knows instantly that they're of Spock. He smiles. "Want to see our first meeting from my perspective?"_

_"Gladly."_

Jim is looking for one of his favorite shirts on a sunny Tuesday of Spring break, which is only called Spring break because it would be rude to call it Vel'anar break when no other religious or cultural festival gets a specifically named vacation. It's a pleasant day outside, and Jim would love to go explore a park or something, but he can't find the shirt that he wants to wear.

"Spock," he says, walking into the greater living room/kitchen/dining room area, "where-?"

"Oh, hello." Amanda smiles at him. "It's wonderful to meet you, Jim."

"Uh," Jim stammers, off-guard. "Yeah, it's wonderful to meet you too. Let me go put on a shirt."

He walks back into their bedroom, cheeks flaming, and grabs a shirt at random after checking briefly that it's not inappropriate. As far as first physical impressions go, that wasn't his finest.

"I'm so sorry about that," he begins as soon as he's back in the main room.

Amanda waves him off. "Oh, don't worry, dear. You’ve wandered into vidcalls shirtless plenty of times.”

“I mean, yeah, but…”

Amanda laughs as Jim makes it into the kitchen and sets her hands on his shoulders, then looks him up and down. He feels oddly naked in front of this small woman, under the gaze that’s nearly identical to Spock’s. He’s been caught off-guard and is flustered, unsure. Then Amanda smiles brightly and pulls Jim into a hug. He stumbles into it, and is surprised to feel just how small Amanda is in his arms. She’d always seemed bigger on screen, like there would just be _more_ of her for him to put his arms around.

In any case, small or large, she gives great hugs. Her hair, which Jim has accidentally found his nose buried in, smells almost fruity in a way that complements the spicy scent that she’s most likely picked up from Vulcan. It’s soft, too, in a way that Jim hadn’t expected despite her Humanity if only because Spock’s hair is so coarse. She squeezes him a bit before letting go and stepping away, still smiling.

“It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you,” she tells him. “I’ve heard so much about you from Spock, aside from our video conversations.”

“Have you?” Jim glances beyond Amanda at Spock, who has developed the faintest of olive blushes across his cheeks and refuses to meet Jim’s eyes. He can’t help the wave of affection that crashes over him, and he’s certain that his smile must’ve been disgustingly besotted when he finally looks back at Amanda and catches her pleased expression.

“You two are so sweet,” Amanda sighs. “I’m so glad that you two met before Spock married.”

“The marriage could be annulled,” Spock tells her.

“That’s true, but it would be an unnecessary hassle to divorce, and if you two had gotten as far as having children then the entire matter would be even more complicated.”

"Not to sound rude or anything," Jim interrupts gently, trying to steer Amanda away from the topic of marriage, "but what are you doing here?"

"Oh, Sarek has diplomatic duties here on Earth. I figured I'd tag along and come visit you two."

"Does father plan on visiting us as well?" Spock asks. Jim can read the hesitance in his voice and has to force himself not to frown.

Amanda's face falls and she shakes her head. "No."

Spock nods like he expected it, but Jim can read sadness in the set of his shoulders and the way his lips move. Amanda sees it too, he recognizes. They make eye contact for a brief moment and share a moment of recognition.

“Why don’t we go to Jive’s?” Jim suggests to break the stilted silence that has draped itself over their apartment like a shroud.

“Jive’s?” Amanda asks.

“A restaurant,” Jim says as he smiles at her. “It’s one of our favorites.”

“What a wonderful idea! I’m starved.” Amanda sets her hand on the bend of Spock’s elbow to guide him. “Come on, sweetie, let’s go get lunch.”

So they make their way to Jive’s, Amanda placing herself gently between Jim and Spock and linking her arms through theirs. It’s unlike any experience that Jim’s ever had. His mother was never really on-planet, and Frank couldn’t be bothered to give much of a dAnn, so Jim was never one of those kids who could be seen walking through parks or museums clutching his mother’s arm.

“Were you raised here, Jim?” Amanda asks as they walk.

“Oh, no.” He laughs. “I was born and raised in Iowa.”

“Iowa, really?” Amanda looks oddly intrigued, considering how empty Iowa is. “What a charming state.”

“Only if you’re visiting. There’s nothing to do after about a day. Where are you from?”

“Washington state.”

“Now that’s a lovely state. I’ve been up there a few times since coming to the Academy, and I’ve loved it every time. The national parks are just breathtaking.”

Amanda seems to light up at the mention of her state’s national parks. “Oh, aren’t they? Mount Rainier has always been my favorite.”

“I’m a fan of Olympic.” Jim peers past Amanda at Spock. “How about you, Spock?”

“I do not frequent Terran national parks. The temperature of Earth is altogether too cold.”

“A shame. I think you’d enjoy mountain climbing.”

Amanda bursts out laughing, and Spock levels Jim with an unimpressed look. Jim can’t even be bothered to care about Spock’s opinion of his joke because Amanda’s gripping his arm tightly in her mirth and he truly feels like a son for the first time.

In Jive’s, Spock and Jim are content to loiter while Amanda decides what she wants. Jim links their pinkies together and leans into Spock’s side, acutely aware that Spock’s emotions are tumultuous. His mother is here, who he loves very much, but still his father wants nothing to do with him.

“I’m glad she really likes me,” Jim murmurs.

“She has shown clear affection for you over video calls,” Spock says, puzzled.

“Yeah, but... I don’t know. I guess I always assumed that she was faking it for your benefit. I’ve never really felt like a son before.”

“You need not worry further.” Spock tightens his pinkie in lieu of a firm, reassuring squeeze of hands. “My mother very well might have adopted all of the children in the Vulcan foster care system had my father not stopped her. She has plenty of room for you.”

Jim smiles softly at Spock, not quite willing to vocalize just how much those words mean to him while they’re in a public place. From the glimmer of Spock’s eyes, he doesn’t need to.

“You two are just the cutest,” Amanda informs them. “I’m ready to order.”

So they order and settle down at a table together. Amanda, much to Jim’s surprise, orders vegetarian food. He looks down at his own turkey sandwich and wonders if becoming a vegetarian will become a requirement.

“Amanda,” he asks between bites, “are you a vegetarian?”

“I am.”

“Is that, like, a requirement?”

“Well...” Amanda tips her head back and forth, as if weighing options. “Not technically. They don’t have any meat on Vulcan, though, so you don’t have a choice if you move there. After a while it did become my choice. I can hardly stomach the thought of eating meat now.”

“Oh.”

“Is there anything else you wanted to ask?” Amanda raises her eyebrows at him, a playful sparkle letting him know that she knows what he’d been thinking. “I’m uniquely qualified to answer any questions that you might have.”

“I’m good for now,” he tells her.

It would be better if she were Sarek’s soulmate. From what Spock has told him, neither of his parents had soulmate marks. Spock is unsure if his father has a death mark— he never asked and never saw for himself— but knows that his mother does. She has the same name as almost the entirety of the current Vulcan population, a fact which alarms scientists.

They haven’t shared the information with the rest of the Federation, of course, but Jim knows because Spock knows because he was born and raised on Vulcan. They believe that the individual named Nero will come carrying a virus, and so doctors are doing their best to prepare. After all, what else could kill off almost an entire species if not a virus?

Jim lets his eyes drift to Amanda’s arm and thinks of his own death mark. His skin chills now at the thought of it, not with fear for himself but fear for Spock and what will become of him afterwards. There’s not a malicious bone in Spock’s body, Jim knows now, and he almost wishes that there were because it would make the entire process so much easier.

“Jim?” Amanda asks.

Jim jerks his head up to look at her. “Yeah?”

“He’s been polite, I assume? Conscious of Human mannerisms and traditions?”

“He has.” Jim looks over at Spock, who seems to be just a tad mutinous, or at the very least flustered. “He’s been a perfect gentleman.”

“Good.”

“You could have asked me, mother.” Spock raised his eyebrows. “I am right here.”

“So you are, dear, so you are.”

“By asking me, though, she ensures that what she taught you is effective. You could be doing all that she taught you, but it wouldn’t matter if I didn’t get it or missed your chivalry.”

“I suppose that your argument has logic to it.”

Jim grins and leans into Spock’s side in a full-body nudge. “Me? Logical? Why, Mister Spock, I’d almost call that a compliment.”

“I certainly would.” Amanda smiles over her cup of tea at the two of them. “That’s some high praise.”

“I’m praise-worthy,” Jim counters.

“You are,” Spock agrees.

Jim glances over at him, surprisingly moved by the two simple words. It’s not that he doesn’t know that Spock loves him, but perhaps that he’s vocalizing such sentimental words in a public space.

“I should hope you think so.” Jim smiles at Spock to disguise the overly sappy fluttering of his heart. “You’re kind of stuck with me.”

“‘Stuck’ carries negative connotation. I would refer to myself as privileged to be with you.”

“You’re making it really hard for me not to get disgustingly romantic right now.”

“I find nothing disgusting about your romantic inclinations,” Spock informs him, as if that will appease Jim.

“Spock, dear,” Amanda interjects gently, “he’s trying to say that he doesn’t want to embarrass you with excessive PDA in a public setting. Also, I’m sitting right here and would witness it all.”

“I see.” Spock is suddenly more stiff and awkward, as if he’d forgotten where they are.

“I’ll smother you with love when we get home,” Jim says. “Right now, though, we’re in public and I’m sure that you’d be at least a little embarrassed if I expressed even half of what I want to say and do right now.”

Spock is still stiff, but his eyes soften when he tells Jim, “I am gratified by your consideration,” and Jim can tell that he really means it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I’m so sorry for the late update, but summer was hectic, school’s been hectic since it started, and I’m currently sick. I’ve been working on chapter four but it’s turning out so long I might need to split it into three or four parts. I haven’t abandoned this, I promise! It’s just slow going.


	4. Conquer (Part One)

When life as they know it dies with the pinging of their comms, Jim and Spock are on the verge of another argument about the Kobayashi Maru.

Upon returning to their apartment after his classes, like he would on any ordinary day, Jim is curious. “Why can’t you make the Kobayashi Maru beatable? Even just one or two ways of winning. Even if they’re almost impossible to do.”

Just a few hours earlier, Jim had witnessed a cadet emerge from taking the Kobayashi Maru and promptly burst into tears. They’d sobbed into their friend’s shoulder, “How am I ever going to be a captain if I can’t beat a stupid simulation? What good will I be in the chair if I can’t even beat _fake_ Klingons?”

His own miserable failure at the Kobayashi Maru still stings, and so does the memory of the argument they’d gotten into afterwards when Spock had tried to explain to him that the test was purposefully unbeatable. He’s the one who designed it, after all, and he did it with the stupid idea that cadets should be taught to embrace impossible scenarios.

Replying to Jim’s question, Spock says, “That would render the entire purpose of the simulation null.”

Jim rolls his eyes and huffs, not willing to start another argument. He’d had to crash in Bones’ for for a few days after their first—and hopefully only—fight over the Kobayashi Maru, and he’s not looking to mess up his back that badly again. Besides, he hates arguing with Spock. It always makes him feel like shit.

Then their comms go off, breaking the silence with little chirps.

This in itself isn’t unusual. Their comms go off all the time; they’re both busy people. However, they’ve never gone off at exactly the same time as they’re doing now.

The normally cheery sound is ominously tinged as Jim and Spock freeze and then turn to make eye contact. There’s something very wrong, and they both know it. While it’s theoretically possible that they’ve both merely been called by different people at the exact same moment, the odds are almost impossible.

Like a dropped mirror shattering, their frigidity breaks and both of them grab for their comms.

“This is an all hands on deck situation. Drop everything and report to the main hangar bay immediately,” Jim reads, knowing that Spock’s message is the same. Something in his stomach chills and churns like one of the slushie machines he saw in movies growing up. “Vulcan has sent out a distress signal.”

“This is not a drill,” Spock says. He sounds almost shocked. “I would have been alerted.”

“It’ll be fine,” Jim says, not knowing who he’s trying to reassure. All he can think of is the name on Amanda’s arm, that perhaps the virus has finally begun. “C’mon, let’s go.”

It seems that they arrive at the hangar bay just as everybody else on campus does, and Jim loses Spock in all the chaos as professors bustle around and cadets fall into neat rows. He can’t help but fidget, imagining all sorts of disasters that could be occurring on Vulcan while they wait around for their assignments. How fatal is the disease? Is it fast? Painful? Maybe it’s not even the virus.

“What’s going on?” Nyota asks him quietly. She’s standing next to him as the professors read off names and ships. Her ponytail is slightly ruffled, as if she was taking a nap when she got the message. “Why is Vulcan sending a distress signal?”

“I don’t know. Why would you ask me?”

“I thought maybe Spock would know. And if he knew, you’d know too.”

“He’s just as confused as the rest of us,” Jim tells her.

“Cadet Gaila Vro:  _ Farragut.” _

Gaila turns around and squeals with joy. She’d wanted to be on the  _ Farragut _ so badly, even more than she wanted to be on the  _ Enterprise _ . Jim and Nyota send her off with smiles that fade as soon as her back is turned.

“I can’t make any sense of this,” Nyota mutters.

“Neither can I.” Jim sighs. “I just hope it’s—“

“Cadet Nyota Uhura:  _ Enterprise.” _

“See you.” She pats his shoulder and disappears into the growing crowd of moving cadets.

“Cadet Li Wong:  _ Reliant. _

“Cadet Avery Boyle:  _ Reliant _

“Cadet Farrah Al-Sumir:  _ Ascension _ .

“Cadet James Kirk:  _ Enterprise.” _

“Fuck yeah,” he whispers as he turns from the lines of cadets and begins to speedwalk towards a shuttle that will take him to the  _ Enterprise _ . Spock, too, is on the  _ Enterprise _ , or so he thinks.

He’s on his way to the shuttle when he passes Bones, who’s engaged in a fierce argument with a professor. His face is bright red, and his hair is almost ruffled with the sheer force of his fury.

“My advisor,” he grinds out, “should’ve put me on the no-fly list. I have aviophobia! I didn’t pass my flight course!”

“Well, Cadet McCoy, l don’t know what to tell you except that your advisor clearly hasn’t put you on the no-fly list yet. I’ve triple-checked it.”

“Well check it again!” Bones demands.

“I’m not checking it again. Just get on the shuttle, Cadet. You’re to report to the  _ Enterprise.” _

“Like hell I’ll—“

_ “Now _ , Cadet, or you’ll be written up for insubordination upon our return.”

Jim’s surprised that the officer doesn’t quail under the blistering anger of Bones’ glare as he stomps away. He passes right by Jim on his way to the  _ Enterprise’s _ shuttle, but doesn’t seem to see him.

“Hey, Bones.” Jim jogs up to him and pats him on the shoulder. It’s a strain to keep pace with his furious friend, but Jim manages. “That sucks.”

“Don’t try to make me feel better,” Bones snaps. “This is un-fucking-believable. I’m going to fucking murder my goddamn advisor when I get back, or so help me God. What the fuck could’ve possibly prevented him from putting me on the fucking no-fly list?”

“I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation,” Jim says, trying to soothe Bones as he strides frantically towards the shuttle. His fists are clenched so tightly at his hands that he’s gone white up to his wrists.

“Reasonable, my ass.” Bones finally makes eye contact with Jim, and he’s appalled by the pure fear in them. “Jim, I can’t do this.”

“Yes you can.” Jim grabs his arm tightly and propels him forwards. “I’m right here, man. I’ll talk you through it.”

“And what about when we get to the ship? You’ve got a station to get to.”

“There’s medicine on the ship that you can use to calm yourself the fuck down, Bones. You’re going to be fine. Everything will be just fine.”

They make it to the shuttle just before the door closes, and the operator gives them a highly disapproving look. Jim is so close to flipping the guy off before he remembers the bundle of absolute panic that he’s gripping with his other hand.

Bones has begun to full-body shake when the engines roar to life. Jim has to take the fastenings from his trembling hands and buckle him in, but it doesn’t seem like anyone else notices. As Jim buckles up himself, he keeps his eyes on Bones’ hands and how tightly they grip the seat.

“Bones, deep breaths,” Jim whispers, reaching out to grip Bones’ knee. It trembles under his palm. “Slow, deep breaths. With me, okay?”

Bones’ eyes are clenched tightly and so is his jaw, but he does as Jim asks and Jim watches the tension begin to fade from his body. His chest stops heaving quite so fast under his reds, and his skin color actually begins to look normal.

All of this work, of course, is undone when they actually take off. Bones flinches like he’s been slapped and then begins to almost curl in on himself. Jim curses and grips Bones’ knee tighter.

“Hey, hey, breathe,” he reminds Bones. “You have to breathe.”

“Gonna puke,” Bones grits through his teeth. “Christ, I’d kill for whiskey.”

“You don’t need it. Just breathe.”

His breaths are deep and shaky, and there are a couple of moments where Jim thinks that Bones might really vomit. Still, they manage to make it to the ship with no major issues.

As they approach the ship, Jim looks out the window and feels his jaw drop. The  _ Enterprise _ looms above them, her hull glowing an enchanting silver. It’s almost like meeting Spock all over again, as odd as that sounds. He’s struck speechless, can’t tear his eyes from her.

Well, not until Bones makes a choking sound and Jim has to make sure that he’s not dying. They spend the rest of the journey like this, with Jim trying to keep Bones from hyperventilating and all-around losing his mind.

It seems like an eternity later when they finally dock. Jim leads Bones off of the shuttle by the arm, and they begin their trek to sickbay together. Bones’ breaths are coming quick and shallow.

“This is ridiculous,” he whispers as they walk. “This-- We’re in  _ space _ . We’re in a glorified  _ tin can.  _ There’s nothing keeping us from the deadly expanse of space except some metal walls that could reasonably be punctured at any moment.”

“Sickbay is the safest place on the whole ship, Bones,” Jim reminds him.

“Safest doesn’t actually mean safe, kid,” Bones snaps as they make their way into a turbolift occupied by a scrawny command ensign.

“Well, it’s safer than where I’ll be.”

“That’s not helping,” Bones says through gritted teeth.

“Whoops.” Jim steers them out of the turbolift and towards sickbay. “Are you going to be able to find whatever you need to dose yourself with?”

“I’m fine to go in by myself like a big boy.” Bones’ voice is drenched in venom when he wrenches his arm from Jim’s grip and stalks into sickbay, but Jim doesn't take offense.

Jim, now standing in the hallway quite alone, nods to congratulate himself on a job well done. He then turns sharply on his heels and returns to the turbolift, pulling up a mental map of the  _ Enterprise _ . His workstation is in a minor tactical room that feeds information to the main tactical bridge console. While he’s excited to be on a real starship on a real mission, even if it’s to his soulmate’s planet, he wishes that he could be doing something more obviously important.

He ends up in the turbolift with Gary Mitchell, known campus-wide as a flirt and a huge douchebag. He’ll try to fuck anything that moves, even if it has a soulmate. He’s tried multiple times to get Jim into bed with him, assuming that Vulcans are shitty lays and that Spock probably never even wants to get as intimate as just hand-holding.

Jim somehow managed, every time, to keep his mouth shut out of respect for Vulcan privacy. Still, it was always a fierce battle between his respect and his desire to inform Gary just how wrong he was.

“Hey, Kirk,” Gary leers. “You made it to the  _ Enterprise _ , too?”

“I did. Not like I’m first in our class or anything.” He turns and presses the button for his floor, praying that the ride will be quick.

“Well, I’m sure brains aren’t everything.”

Jim licks his lips just to give himself a moment to quell his anger before he replies. “Are you suggesting something? Something about Spock, maybe?”

“Your precious Vulcan? I’d never.” Gary’s voice is dripping with false innocence, and Jim grits his teeth.

“No, of course you wouldn’t.”

Finally, blessedly, the doors open onto Jim’s floor and he’s allowed to make his escape.

Although he makes his way to his station as quickly as he can, his commanding officer is less than pleased. No sooner has he set foot inside the tactical room than a stern voice is barking, “You’re late.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Jim says to the surprisingly bulky man. He looks far more like a security officer than a tactical officer, with hairy, bearish hands and an angry scowl. “I was feeling ill after the shuttle ride, so I went to sickbay first for some medicine.”

The officer can’t come up with a way to reprimand him for going to sickbay, so he seems to settled for scowling even deeper and ordering Jim to his station immediately.

“That was a bold-faced lie,” a friend of Jim’s whispers when he settles down at his station, right next to xir’s. The aquamarine ganglia that cover xir head like hair on a Human flutter with amusement.

“It totally was,” Jim whispers back.

A subtle tugging sensation deep in Jim’s gut sends a thrill through him. They’ve gone to warp. It’s surprisingly late, or so it feels to Jim, but he’s not on the bridge so he has no clue.

They work in relative silence for a few minutes, with no speech but plenty of chiming and chirping from their consoles. Just as Jim is wondering how close they are to their destination, the shipwide comm sounds.

“May I have your attention, please,” someone says over the comm. Whoever it is, Jim doesn’t think they could possibly have a heavier Russian accent without actually speaking in Russian. “At twenty-two hundred hours, telemetry detected an anomaly in the neutral zone. What appeared to be a lightning storm in space.”

Jim goes completely still at his station. His veins have been flooded with ice and he’s frozen, goosebumps racing across his entire body like the sweeping shadow of a total solar eclipse. He’s not even sure if he’s breathing.

“Jim?” Ze-Tilen whispers. Xe sounds worried.

“Soon after, Starfleet received a distress signal from Wulcan High Command that their planet was experiencing seismic actiwity. Our mission is to assess the condition of Wulcan, and to assist in the ewacuations if necessary. We should be arriving at Wulcan within three minutes. Thank you for your time.”

A lightning storm in space.

“Mommy, what hurt your ship on my birthday?” Jimmy asks. He’s only four, and he’s curious about everything, including the disaster that took his father.

Mommy stops stirring dinner. She turns white like a ghost in one of the books that she reads to him, sometimes.

“Mommy?”

“I heard you,” she says. Her voice is sharp, but it cracks as she speaks. “It... It was a lightning storm.”

“A lightning storm in space?” Jimmy asks, wide-eyed. He hadn’t known that there could be lightning in space. Sam has told him that the only weather in space was ion storms.

“Yeah, baby, a lightning storm in space.” Mommy wipes at her eyes. Maybe she’s cooking onions? But Jimmy hates onions, and she knows this. “Go back to watching TV now.”

“Okay.”

Jimmy turns and goes back into the living room. He’s got to tell Sam that he was wrong about the space weather.

“Oh Christ,” Jim gasps, and pushes himself to his feet. “I-- I need to get to the bridge.”

“You don’t need to go anywhere except right back into that chair,” the burly officer says, sounding pissed off.

“No.” Jim shakes his head. “No, I really-- I need to go.”

He takes off at a sprint, and he’s out the door and down the hall before he hears the furious officer whose name he doesn’t even know giving chase.

He darts down hallway after hallway until he can’t hear the officer anymore, then pauses to catch his breath. After making sure that there’s nobody around who could or would rat him out to anyone, he climbs inside of the nearest Jefferies tube and shimmies down a couple of floors.

When he emerges three floors below his original work station, he runs right into Nyota. She stares at him in shock and mild horror.

“What are you doing?” she demands. “What have you done?”

“The transmission from the Klingon prison planet that you intercepted last night,” Jim says, completely ignoring her. “The one you told me and Gaila about. Was it Romulans?”

“What?”

“Who was responsible for the attack? Was it Romulans?”

“...Yes.” She frowns at him. “Jim, seriously, what’s going on?”

“We need to stop the ship,” he tells her, heart pounding.

He thinks of everyone on board, Spock and Pike and Bones and Nyota and Ze-Tilen and the burly tactical officer. He can’t let them die, not when he can stop it, not when he knows what he knows about lightning storms in space and ships that go to investigate them.

“We need to what?” Nyota asks. She’s looking at him like he’s grown a second head. “Why?”

“I need you to trust me and come with me, I don’t have time to explain.”

“Can I use the bathroom first?” she asks. “I have to pee, Jim.”

“No, we have to stop it  _ now.” _

“Jim, what is so important that you can’t wait the two minutes that it’ll take me to use the bathroom?”

“We’re flying into a trap!”

Nyota goes still and stares at him for a good three seconds. Jim feels like he’s going out of his mind with every second wasted. If only he could just pick her up, stuff her in a pocket, and run.

She closes her eyes and murders, as if to herself, “Sweet Asa, I’m really going to do this.” As she opens her eyes, she shakes her head a bit as if disappointed in herself. “Fine. Let’s stop a starship.”

It doesn’t go as smoothly as Jim would’ve hoped. When they make it to the bridge, taking the turbolift at Nyota’s insistence so they look at least a little more credible than dirty gremlins, Jim strides out onto the bridge and says: “Captain Pike, we have to stop the ship!”

Jim doesn’t really know what he expects. Pike may be his advisor and may have been the one who convinced Jim to join Starfleet, but for all this Jim is just now realizing that they really don’t know each other at all.

“We what?” Pike turns in his chair and looks at Jim as if he’s arrived with a message from HQ ordering them to turn around. “What are you two doing on the bridge? You’re not authorized to be here.”

“Vulcan isn’t experiencing a natural disaster, it’s being attacked by Romulans,” Jim insists.

“Romulans?” A funny look passes over Pike’s face, as if he’s decided to humor them. “I assume you have evidence to back up your claim?”

“That same anomaly, a lightning storm in space that we saw today, also occurred on the day of my birth. Before a Romulan ship attacked the USS _Kelvin._ You know that, sir, I read your dissertation. That ship, which had formidable and advanced weaponry, was never seen or heard from again. The _Kelvin_ attack took place on the edge of Klingon space and at twenty-three hundred hours last night, there was an attack. Forty-seven Klingon warbirds destroyed by a Romulan, sir. It was reported that the Romulans were in one ship, one massive ship.”

“And you know about the attack last night... how?”

“I’m the one who intercepted and translated the message,” Nyota says from behind him. “His statement is accurate.”

“Spock,” Pike says, still looking at Jim, “He’s your soulmate, isn’t he?”

“He is,” Spock says, sounding somewhere between humiliated and horrified. Nobody else can hear it, Jim knows, but it still stings.

“What do you make of this?”

Spock looks like he wants to curl in on himself and disappear, but he says, “James would not burst onto the bridge in the middle of an aid mission and demand that we stop the ship without an incredibly good reason, sir.”

Pike stares at Jim for a good ten seconds without speaking. The bridge is totally silent apart from the sounds of machinery and the engines humming away far under their feet. Finally Pike sighs in a way similar to Nyota’s shake of her head.

“Scan Vulcan space for Romulan transmissions.”

The lieutenant sitting at the communication console says hesitantly, “Sir, I’m not sure I can distinguish Vulcan from Romulan.”

“And you, Cadet?” Pike turns to address Nyota. “Do you speak Romulan?”

“All three dialects, sir,” Nyota says proudly. “Professor Spock can attest to my linguistic capabilities.”

“Her aural sensitivity is unparalleled,” Spock confirms with much more ease than he had supported Jim.

“Lieutenant, you’re relieved. Cadet, scan Vulcan space for Romulan transmissions.”

“Yes, sir,” Nyota says. Jim glances over his shoulder and smiles at her wide-eyed joy.

“Hannity, hail the USS _Truman.”_

“All other ships have dropped out of warp around Vulcan, sir, but we seem to have lost contact with them.”

“Sir,” Nyota says, a hand to her ear. She looks concerned. “There’s... There’s nothing. No Romulan, no Vulcan, no transmissions at all.”

“It’s because they’re being attacked,” Jim says. His voice is just too loud in the quietness.

“Shields up, red alert,” Pike orders.

“Arrival at Vulcan in three, two, one...”

They drop out of warp into a massacre. There’s no other way to describe it, huge chunks of starships floating aimlessly above the scarlet surface of Vulcan, the color of spilt blood. Jim spies a frozen corpse drifting in front of the viewscreen.

“Emergency evasive!” Pike barks.

It’s sheer chaos as Pike shouts orders and officers shout the ship’s status back at him. Jim is awestruck by now at home he feels here, in this moment. If he’d had any doubts about wanting to be captain, they’re gone now. He wants to be in Pike's position. Not his exact position, of course, because they're floating in the middle of a literal massacre, but his desire still stands.

It takes a few moments, before Jim recognizes the massive, lurking shape that sits amidst the carnage. He’s read Pike’s dissertation, gleaned bits and pieces from his mother about the ship that took his father. He knows that it was a large, hulking mass, that it was spiny and jagged-looking, that it reeked of despair and threat.

This is the ship.

“Captain,” Nyota says, a hand to her ear. She almost looks like a seasoned professional, if not for the slight trembling of her hands. “We’re being hailed.”

“On screen.”

An image flashes to life on the viewscreen, dark enough that it was hard to really see who was speaking or where they were. Still, the image feels burned into Jim’s psyche. There are intricate Romulan tattoos all across the man’s head, which has the typical pointed ears and eyebrows shared by both Romulans and Vulcans. This is very likely the man who killed his father.

“Hello,” the man says. His voice is gravelly, and an undertone of smugness makes Jim want to beat his face in.

“This is Captain Christopher Pike. To whom am I speaking?”

“I’m Nero. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Captain Pike.”

Pike doesn’t bother with being polite. “You've declared war against the Federation. Withdraw. I'll agree to arrange a conference with Romulan leadership at a neutral location.”

Nero smiles condescendingly, as if Pike has said something terribly stupid. “I do not speak for the Empire. We stand apart, as does your Vulcan crewmember. Isn’t that right, Spock?”

A prickling sensation runs up Jim’s spine. He turns to look at Spock, who is standing stiffly as he faces the viewscreen. They make brief eye contact, a moment of solidarity before Spock faces Nero and speaks.

“Pardon me, but I do not believe that you and I are acquainted.”

“No, we're not. Not yet. Spock, there's something I would like you to see. Captain Pike, your transporter has been disabled. As you can see by the rest of your armada, you have no choice. You will man a shuttle and come aboard the _Narada_ for negotiations. That is all.”

Before anyone can vocalize complaints or alternate suggestions, the viewscreen goes dark and Nero is gone. Floating beyond the ship is the rubble of other starships, a mass graveyard for those who had been so full of aspiration. Captain Pike stands suddenly and draws the bridge’s attention to him. He hasn’t even said anything, but Jim knows what he’s going to do.

“He'll kill you,” Jim protests. “You know that.”

“Your survival is unlikely,” Spock agrees.

Still, Pike looks like he’s going to comply, and Jim says, “Captain, we gain nothing by diplomacy. Going over to that ship is a mistake.”

Thankfully, he’s not going at this alone. Spock is stepping forward to back Jim up. “I, too, agree. You should re-think your strategy.”

“I understand that,” Pike says, but continues immediately afterwards with, “I need officers who have been trained in advanced hand-to-hand combat.”

“I have training, sir,” the helmsman chimes in. Sulu, Jim thinks his name is.

“I do too,” Jim says. His skin is itching with the desire to punch Nero in his stupid face, not just for his father but for the thousands of cadets left dead by his hand.

“Alright then, you too.” Pike nods at him, and Jim feels a moment of joy before he catches Spock’s disapproving gaze. The joy fizzles and dies, but Jim is still determined to help. “Chekov, you have the comm.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” a short Russian kid chirps.

“Spock, Sulu, Kirk, with me.”

Jim, Spock, and Sulu follow Pike into the turbolift, where Pike commands that they be taken to engineering. An odd place to go, surely, during a situation such as this, but Jim doesn’t question it.

Pike doesn’t speak until they make it to engineering, where he begins to speedwalk at a brisk pace. “Without transporters, we can't beam off the ship, we can't assist Vulcan, we can't do our job. Mister Kirk, Mister Sulu, and Engineer Olson will space-jump from the shuttle. You will land on that machine they lowered into the atmosphere that's scrambling our gear. You'll get inside. You'll disable it, then you'll beam back to the ship.

“Mister Spock, I'm leaving you in command of the Enterprise. Once we have transport capabilities and communication back up, you'll contact Starfleet and report what the hell's going on here. And if all else fails, fall back, rendezvous with the fleet in the Laurentian system. Kirk, I'm promoting you to first officer.”

“You’re what?” Jim asks, flabbergasted.

“Captain, please, I apologize,” Spock says. He sounds just as shocked and confused as Jim feels. “The complexities of Human pranks escape me. Jim has no legitimate command experience. He has never set foot aboard a starship before now, and you are making him the first officer.” Jim can’t even be mad at Spock for crapping on his promotion, because even he’s massively unsure of his qualifications.

“It's not a prank, Spock.” Pike clearly feels no need to justify his insane decision. “And I'm not the Captain, you are. Let's go.”

“Sir, after we knock out that drill, what happens to you?” Jim asks.

Nonchalantly, Pike shrugs and says, “Oh, I guess you'll have to come and get me. Careful with the ship, Spock. She’s brand new.”

“What the fuck is going on?” Jim whispers to Spock. They’re stopped at another turbolift, one that will take Jim and Spock in different directions.

“I do not know.”

“Well, good luck anyways.” Jim reaches out and presses a Vulcan kiss to the back of Spock’s hand.

“Luck does not exist.”

“We’ve got a drill to destroy, boys, come on!” Olson says from the turbolift. He’s bouncing up and down like a kid on his birthday, which Jim thinks is weird to say the least.

“Good luck,” Jim repeats quietly to Spock.

He steps into the turbolift and lets the doors slide shut between them.

“He’ll be fine,” Pike says.

“Hmm?”

“Spock. He’ll be fine.”

“I’m sure he will be,” Jim says. “I’m not worried about him. Too much.”

“It was weird, wasn’t it, how that Nero guy seemed to know him?” Sulu asks.

“That’s definitely worrying. But I know he’s more than competent. He’ll be safer than us, at any rate.”

“Just don’t miss the platform,” Pike suggests.

“Ah.” Jim’s voice is dry, but nerves jangle in his chest. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

He isn’t sure if it’s his nerves or some sort of mild food poisoning, but before Jim knows if he’s sitting in the shuttle and they’re about to launch. He doesn’t remember much between, but he doesn’t think he embarrassed himself too badly. Sulu and Olsen are both fiddling with their own equipment, and nobody’s throwing Jim any weird looks.

“Shuttle eight nine, USS _Enterprise,”_ a crew member says over the shuttle’s comm. “You are cleared forward...”

“You got the charges, right?” Jim asks Olson.

Olson grins widely at him, too widely for the circumstances in a way that makes Jim nervous. “Oh yeah. I can't wait to kick some Romulan ass. Right?”

“Yeah,” Jim agrees blandly.

Olson smiles and nods like he’s just spotted a busty woman doing an impressive keg stand at a frat party. Jim doesn’t know how he’ll be able to trust Olson with the charges that could well determine the fate of their mission. “Oh yeah.”

With a gentle clunk, the shuttle disengages from where it had been locked into the shuttle bay. Pike steers them gently out of the ship and into the graveyard above Vulcan, down into the atmosphere.

Hoping to spend as little time conversing with Olson as possible if only for the sake of his nerves, Jim turns to Sulu and says, “So, what kind of combat training do you have?” He hopes Sulu knows some kind of martial art; it could really come in handy when many hostile alien species only know the standard-taught style of Federation fighting.

“Fencing,” Sulu says, and dashes all of Jim’s optimism.

“Oh,” Jim says. He tries his best to keep his voice level enough that Sulu can’t pick up on his disappointment and rising fear.

“Pre-jump,” Pike calls.

Jim lifts his EV helmet from where it’s been sitting on his lap and puts it on. He hears it lock into place with a small, friendly click and relaxes somewhat. At least he knows he won’t die before he reaches the platform.

“This is so exciting,” Olson whispers as the three of them gather in the center of the shuttle, above the doors that will soon open and suck them into Vulcan’s atmosphere.

Jim hums noncommittally.

“...You are clear from USS _Enterprise_ airspace...” a voice crackles over the shuttle’s comm.

“Gentlemen, we're approaching the drop zone,” Pike informs them. “You have one shot to land on that platform. You may have to fix this to pull your 'chute as late as possible. Three... two... one. Remember, the _Enterprise_ won't be able to beam you back until you turn off that drill. Good luck.”

The doors opens beneath them and sucks Jim, Olson, and Sulu into the scorching air beneath them. Jim’s stomach lurches so horribly that he feels bile rise in his throat and has to choke it back.

They plummet for a few moments, Jim keeping an eye on the small display in the corner of his vision as they do. “Kirk to _Enterprise,”_ he reports. “Distance to target, five thousand meters.”

“Forty-two hundred meters to target,” Sulu reports.

“Four thousand meters,” Jim says.

“Three thousand meters.”

“Three thousand meters,” Olson chimes in.

Jim’s whole body is trembling with the adrenaline rush. The circumstances are grave, but Jim wonders for a moment why he never tried skydiving before.

“Two thousand meters,” he says.

“Pull your chute,” Sulu orders.

He does so as he says the words, and Jim follows moments after, but he watches in horror as Olson continues to plummet. Did his chute not work? Did it malfunction?

“Two thousand meters!” Olson shouts gleefully.

No, Jim realizes with a sinking feeling. Olson just didn’t pull it.

“C’mon, pull your chute, Olson!” Jim shouts at Jim over the comm.

“Not yet! Fifteen hundred meters!”

“Open your chute!” Sulu yells, joining Jim in his stop-Olson-before-he-dies crusade.

“Yeah!” Olson whoops, not seeming to hear them.

“Olson, pull your chute!” Jim shouts again.

“One thousand meters!”

Olson finally pulls his chute, but it’s too late. He slams into the platform, and his parachute is drawn into the energy beam below. Jim watches silently, horrified, as Olson is sucked into the energy beam after his chute. The comm unit in Jim’s helmet crackles and then goes silent.

“Olson!” Jim cries, but there’s no response. He hadn’t expected one.

“Oh my...” Sulu whispers.

“Fuck,” Jim agrees.

They continue towards the platform, and Jim tries his best to shove Olson’s death to the back of his mind and focus on the mission. Even so, he realizes too late that he’s going to land hard and prays that he won’t break a leg or other limb in the process.

The landing shakes every bone in Jim’s body, and he grits his teeth as his ankles send a hot tingling sensation all the way to his hips. He grunts as he topples over, and realizes with horror that floods his veins like ice water that his chute, like Olson’s, is being drawn into the energy beam. He grips a ridge on the platform and holds on for dear life as he uses his other hand to slap the ‘retract parachute’ button on his EV suit. For a few brief moments after the parachute retracts, he lays gasping.

But then there’s a golden shimmer in the air that isn’t the product of heat, and Jim can only watch as two Romulans appear on the platform. Jim launches himself to his feet with an angry groan and prepares to fight. It won’t be fair; Jim has a less powerful phaser and is outnumbered, but he doesn’t plan to go down without a fight.

One of the Romulans— the taller, burly one, of course— launches himself at Jim despite having a gun. They grapple for a moment, man against larger, stronger, alien man. Jim manages to twist the phaser rifle that the Romulan is holding so that when it fires, it doesn’t hit Jim.

Unfortunately, it fires in the direction of Sulu. Jim only has half a moment to gawk in horror, but is relieved when he sees the blast hit Sulu’s parachute and not the man himself. He doesn’t get to see if the blast affects Sulu’s landing or not because the Romulan decides that it’s time once more for him and Jim to tussle.

Over-muscled and outgunned, Jim finds himself quickly pushed down onto the platform. His momentum carries him into a roll, and his stomach lurches to his throat at warp speed when his legs find nothing beneath them but air. He reaches out blindly and catches the edge of the platform with his hands and then hangs there, legs waving. He can feel the heat from the energy beam even through his EV suit.

The Romulan stands above him, sneering. He raises a boot to stomp on Jim’s hand, and Jim can only think _I can’t die yet, this isn’t Spock, but how do I live?_

Not through any of his own actions, is the answer. Jim watches as a blade emerges from the Romulan’s stomach, stained green. The blade then retracts, and Jim tries to become as small as possible as the Romulan’s corpse tips forward and begins to fall towards the planet’s surface.

Sulu stands where the Romulan had before, panting hard but offering Jim a crooked grin. “Come on, give me your hand.”

Jim takes his hand when he crouches and holds it out, then begins the slightly cumbersome process of hauling himself back onto the platform with Sulu’s aid. Finally, they get Jim back onto the platform and take about two seconds to breathe and figure out what to do next.

“Olson had the charges!” Sulu shouts over the roar of the energy beam.

“I know!”

“What do we do?!”

Jim looks around the platform and spies an abandoned phaser rifle from one of the two Romulans that Sulu managed to take out. He staggers to his feet, picks up the rifle, and looks at Sulu.

“This!” He replies, and opens fire on the platform. It doesn’t take more than a few blasts before the platform shudders, throwing Jim and Sulu onto their backsides, and the energy beam dies.

They stay sitting as they wait for the _Enterprise_ to transport them back up. Now that all the fighting is over, they take off their helmets, even though the atmosphere is thin. Jim gasps for breath, as does Sulu.

“What a day,” Sulu says.

“That’s one way of putting it,” Jim agrees.

The whistling of an object moving quickly through air catches their attention, and they look as a capsule-like object about the size of Jim’s head whizzes past them towards the planet.

Having taken his helmet off, Jim uses the communicator built into the wrist of his suit and says, “Kirk to Enterprise. They just launched something at the planet through the hole they just drilled. Do you copy, Enterprise?”

“Yes, sir,” an officer replies.

For a good ten seconds, Jim and Sulu just sit and stare at each other. They’re waiting for a beam-up, their mission accomplished, but it doesn’t come. Their stares become awkward and Jim raises his communicator again.

“Uh, _Enterprise,_ how about a beam-up?”

“Stand by, we’re locking on to your signals.”

Without warning, the platform shudders horribly and begins to move upwards. Jim is jostled onto his back, and looks over at Sulu only to see him topple off the edge of the platform. His face is pale with terror as it disappears from Jim’s view.

“I can’t lock onto you,” the transporter technician is saying as Sulu falls, as Jim pushes himself up onto his feet. “Don’t move, don’t move!”

“Kirk!” Jim hears Sulu shout.

“Sulu!” Jim doesn’t even think before he leaps off of the platform to follow Sulu. His helmet is off, now, and the hot wind strikes his face bitterly as he contorts his body to speed his fall. “Sulu, hold on!”

It’s surprisingly painful when their bodies collide and bounce off of each other, but Sulu clings tightly to him. Jim pulls him closer and wraps him in a bear hug.

“I’m gonna die,” Jim hears Sulu gasp. “We’re gonna die.”

“We’re not gonna die! I’ve got you! Now pull my chute!”

Sulu’s shaking hands slide around to Jim’s back and tug on the parachute release. It clatters open behind them, halts their fall quite sharply, and then just as quickly breaks. Jim swears he feels his heart stop as the parachute flutters away with atmospheric winds and the two of them keep falling.

“Kirk to Enterprise, we’re falling without a chute! Beam us up!”

“I’m trying, but I can’t lock on to your signal. You’re moving too fast!”

Part of Jim thinks that the universe must be wrong, that he’ll die like this and not at Spock’s hands. The thought is almost a relief, except there’s another person who’s going to die with him. They tighten their grips on each other.

“I’m sorry,” Sulu says into his shoulder.

“I’m the one who jumped after you.” Jim says. His heart is pounding in his chest to such an extreme degree that it actually hurts. “You didn’t drag me.”

“Still.”

Over the technician’s comm, Jim hears someone with a Russian accent shouting that they can lock on to him and Sulu. Hope sears his tongue as he shouts again, “Beam us up! _Enterprise,_ where are you?!”

The ground is approaching rapidly, an endless red expanse rushing up to meet them. It’ll be fast, but Jim really doesn’t want to die at the moment.

“Hold on, hold on!” the Russian says. He sounds as frantic as Jim.

“Now, now, now!” Jim can’t stop the words as they rush out of his mouth, trampling each other in their panic. “Do it now!”

“Don’t move!” the Russian tells them, as if they have a choice in the matter. “Computing gravitational pull, and... gotcha!”

Instead of the rocky, sandy surface of Vulcan, Sulu and Jim slam into the floor of the transporter room and roll away from each other, gasping and groaning. Jim blinks up at the bright lights above him as he tries to calm down. He had been so certain that he was going to die.

After all, the future was never completely locked in stone. It wasn’t unheard of for those with death marks to believe themselves invincible due to having a name on their arm, only to do something so terribly foolish that they died anyways. Something, for example, like jumping off of a platform hanging miles above the surface of a planet and then losing their parachute.

Their savior— who, upon inspection, is the same curly-haired kid that made the shipwide announcement earlier— shouts something victorious in Russian and pumps his fist. He looks so much like a child in the moment, and Jim aches for him.

“Thanks.” Sulu gasps. He’s full-body trembling when Jim looks over at him.

“Of course.”

“I still-- I mean I knew I’d live, I guess, since I’ve yet to meet Ben, but...”

“I know.”

As they’re pushing their self up onto coltish legs, still weak from fear and adrenaline, the doors hiss open and Spock strides through them. He’s every inch a man on a mission, his spine stiff with tension and his eyes dark with anxiety that Jim so rarely sees Spock express.

“Clear the pad. I’m beaming to the surface.”

“You’re what?” Jim asks, dumbfounded. “Why? Are you nuts?”

“The High Council must be saved. I’m going to retrieve them.” The time of Spock’s voice leaves no room for argument. It’s now a choice of allowing him to go to the planet’s surface alone, or going with him.

“I’m coming with you.”

“You will not. You must stay here and oversee the ship.”

“I’ve never overseen a ship in my life, and you want me to do it now?” Jim rolls his eyes. “Spock. I’m coming with you.”

Spock flattens his lips and says, “Very well,” but Jim can tell that he’s pissed. So Jim climbs up onto the platform beside him, still in his EV suit. “Energize.”

A jolt of horror strikes through Jim’s chest when he recalls that he and Spock are the two most senior officers at the moment, and that since the chain of command was fucked up by Pike, there’s no clearly designated third— fourth?— in command.

“Sulu,” Jim blurts before he can dissolve. “You’re it!”

“‘It?’” Spock questions as soon as they arrive. He has a phaser tucked into his waistband, which Jim only notices as he removes it. Jim reflects that he probably should’ve grabbed one too.

“Well I didn’t exactly have the time to say, ‘Lieutenant Sulu, you’re now the Acting Captain of the _Enterprise,’_ now, did I?” Jim has to hurry to keep up with Spock as they hustle towards a mountain. “Besides, the passing of command seems like a game of tag at this point.”

Spock doesn’t reply, and they keep up their miserable pace. By the time they make it to the entrance to what Jim now recognizes as the Katric Ark, Jim’s gasping for air. The cave looks ominous, but it also looks cooler inside so Jim follows Spock in without hesitation. They rush deeper inwards, across floors worn smooth through the foot traffic of millennia.

When the two of them enter-- quite frankly, Jim would describe their arrival with the word ‘burst’ instead of ‘enter,’ but there’s nothing to burst through-- the center of the Katric Ark, the person to turn first is, to Jim’s great surprise, Amanda.

“Spock, Jim,” she says. “What--?”

“The planet has only seconds left. We must evacuate.” A deep tremble shakes the earth, and Jim watches in horror as the cave begins to collapse around them. A statue topples and crushes a council member. The green stain that begins to slowly spread from underneath the statue makes Jim sick. “Mother, now!”

“Yeah, we should all get going sometime around yesterday,” Jim says as he begins to back towards the exit.

For once, Jim’s very Human way of speaking doesn’t get him dirty looks. The council members are too concerned with escaping the crumbling mountain, and they all break into a sprint as more statues fall. Jim thinks two more elders are crushed, but he doesn’t look back.

When they emerge onto the planet’s surface, into the bright sunshine, Jim is greeted with a terrible sight. He can see the scarlet surface quite literally collapsing in on itself, and is struck dizzy by the strength of his nausea. What could possibly be happening? What could Nero have launched into the hole that he drilled?

“Oh!” Amanda gasps. Jim jerks his head towards her. He hadn’t noticed her step away from Spock and approach the edge of the narrow cliff they’re standing on.

He wonders how it must hurt, seeing her home of decades crumbling before her. Jim has never been all that attached to Iowa, but if he tries to imagine watching San Francisco collapsing before him, her glittering skyscrapers tipping and crashing down, his chest begins to seize from pain summoned by his own imagination. Amanda’s pain must be worse, Jim thinks, because this is reality and not imagination, and the thought is nearly enough to draw tears of sympathy to his eyes.

Her face is slack as she takes in the horrendous sight, but her eyes are the most fascinating part. They’re dark with pain and loss, yet bright with astonishment. Gritty wind whips her hair across her face, strands dancing across the bridge of her nose. She looks younger than Jim’s ever seen her.

The cliff shakes beneath them, and Jim watches pebbles jump right off the edge. He reaches out and grabs Amanda’s arm, unconcerned about what Sarek or any of the other Vulcans might think. In the face of a collapsing planet, Jim feels very small and very Human.

“Spock to Enterprise, beam us up now!” Spock’s voice comes from directly behind them, and Jim turns backwards in surprise.

The Russian kid’s voice-- He’s still manning the transporter?-- comes through Spock’s comm, slightly tinny. “Locking on to you. Don’t move. Transport in five, four, three--“ Jim gasps and slips as the stone beneath his feet turns to slippery pebbles. Amanda, too, lets out a small cry as the ground beneath her feet disappears. “--two--"

“No!” Spock shouts. As he falls, Jim manages to look back over his shoulder at Spock, who looks petrified.

It’s a catch-22, Jim realizes. Due to the way that Jim and Amanda are positioned-- Jim gripping Amanda’s right arm with his left hand, Spock directly behind them-- Spock can’t grab them both. There’s no hand for him to grab if he lunges directly forward. He has to choose to jump left or right, to save his soulmate or his mother.

Jim clutches Amanda’s arm as tight as he can. Whoever Spock chooses, maybe the other can be saved too. Maybe Jim can keep his grip on Amanda’s arm, whether he’s dangling from her or she’s dangling from him. He hopes more than anything that neither of them has to die.

They slip off of the cliff together, and Jim hopes that Spock and Amanda both know everything that he’s never said. He hopes that Amanda knows that he loves her and appreciates her presence as a mother figure. He hopes that Spock knows how much he loves him. He hopes that Bones knows that he’s been a great friend despite their perpetual, brutal sarcasm. He hopes that Nyota knows that she was the sister he never had. He hopes that Gaila-- oh, fuck, she was on the _Farragut._ She’s probably dead, and he can’t even be too upset about it right now because he’s about to join her.

“Don’t move, don’t move!” the Russian kid shouts through Spock’s comm. “I’m losing them!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! It's been a while; writer's block sucks, and college application is super stressful. Here's the first part of chapter four, though. I was going to split it into three average-length chapters, but I couldn't find good stopping points, so I converted it into two long chapters. Although it'll be a while before I post the second part of this chapter, I hope you enjoy part one! (And sorry for the cliffhanger. XD)


	5. Conquer (Part Two)

A hand closes around his right wrist.

His fall is halted, but the relief lasts for less than a split second. Amanda’s dress is made of light, silky fabric that rips itself from his grasp before Jim even knows he’s no longer holding anything. Dangling over the edge of the cliff, Jim watches in horror as Amanda falls. He reaches out, lurches for her as if he could possibly catch her in time, and feels the choked gasp that Spock makes cut him like a knife.

“I’m losing her! I— I lost her.”

Jim closes his eyes against burning tears as the transporter takes him. He feels an awful lot like he’s going to throw up, and he’s not sure if it’s guilt, heat, the transporter, or a combination of the three. He doesn’t much care, so long as he doesn’t actually vomit.

His legs buckle when he rematerializes, and he crashes to the transporter room floor. He just as quickly picks himself back up, because none of the Vulcans have fallen and he’ll be damned if he’s going to let Humanity look so weak. A tear begins to make its way down his face. He wipes it brusquely away.

“I...”

The poor Russian kid looks like he’s about to burst into childlike sobs. His lips quivers and his throat works, but nothing emerges from his mouth. Even his coppery curls look deflated, Jim reflects with his currently limited mental and emotional capacity.

“I’m so sorry, Keptin sir. I—“

“It is not your fault, Ensign,” Spock interrupts gently. “You did your best.”

Jim, so deeply guilty that he can feel a physical ache constricting his heart, looks slowly over at Spock. He seems put together from the outside, but Jim catches a glimpse of his eyes and is stunned for a moment by the pain in them. His own throat tightens in both sympathy and guilt.

If he’d just had a better grip on her...

Spock begins to stalk towards the exit, and Jim follows him. As they head for the door, Spock looks to the transporter technician whose job the Russian kid stole and says, “Please show the Vulcan High Council to sickbay for Doctor McCoy to take care of.”

“You did good,” Jim reassures the Russian kid.

Spock doesn’t even look at him as they leave the transporter room. Dread settles in Jim’s chest and begins to build like water filling a container. Its weight grows and grows until he feels he might sink through the floor with it.

“Spock to bridge,” Spock says into his comm. “Evacuate Vulcan space immediately. Settle into orbit around Delta Vega and begin an orbital search for survivors.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Spock,” Jim whispers the moment that the turbolift doors have shut. He’s horrified by how badly his voice breaks.

“James, I—“ Spock’s voice, too, trembles and cracks under the weight of his grief. He straightens up even further, if it’s at all possible, and clears his throat. “I cannot speak of it at this time.”

“That’s all right. I just— I’m sorry.”

“Do not be. You—“

“No,” Jim sighs. He feels defeated. Deflated. He wants to sleep for a month and wake up with this all being a bad dream. “Don’t you dare tell me that it’s not my fault that— that—“ He licks his lips and huffs out a harsh breath. A swelling lump obstructs his throat and his following words are tight. “I had her. And then I didn’t. _I_ had her.”

Spock doesn’t get the chance to respond, because the doors to the bridge slide open. It’s clean and bright and so open that Jim suddenly feels very, very small. Spock steps out onto the bridge, looking every inch a true commander, and Jim pulls himself up and follows because he’s not the one who lost his mother only moments ago.

“There’s no sign of Captain Pike, sir,” Sulu says as he stands from the captain’s chair. Behind him, Delta Vega fills the viewscreen. “Nero’s ship has warped away.”

“Thank you. You’re relieved, Mister Sulu.”

“What do we do now?” Jim asks. Spock settles into the captain’s chair and Jim loiters by his side.

“We rescue survivors and then decide on a course of action.”

“How... How many are there?” Jim asks, hesitant to voice the question. “Will we be able to fit them all?”

“Perhaps. If we cannot, there is a Starfleet base on Delta Vega that I believe could, if necessary, contain approximately twenty-thousand beings.”

“Twenty-thousand isn’t much, sir,” Sulu chimes in. “There’s got to be more survivors than that, right? I mean, Vulcan is— uh, was— home to billions.”

“Was?” Jim asks. “Is the whole planet gone?”

“Yes,” Spock says. “The material that Nero fired into the planet created a black hole at the center of Vulcan. The entire planet is... gone.”

“Gone? It’s— It’s a whole planet. It can’t just be gone.”

“Nero has unparalleled technology that the Federation has never even dreamt of.” Sulu shakes his head. “It’s gone. The whole thing.”

Jim’s whole body feels oddly cold, his mind fuzzy. He’s not sure if he’s in shock or if everything is moving so quickly that he just can’t wrap his mind around it all. This morning was perfectly normal. Now he’s standing on a starship orbiting Delta Vega as a first officer, having just escaped the collapse of an entire planet populated by billions into a black hole.

“What about the other ships?” Jim remembers to ask. “There has to be survivors. Did they all get sucked into the black hole?”

“Thank goodness that this ship has multiple transporter rooms,” Nyota says. Jim turns to face her. “As soon as you and Sulu reenabled transporter capabilities, we began to beam back every survivor that we could locate amidst the wreckage. There were only thirty-two of them, but it’s more than we’d hoped for.”

The turbolift doors slide open and the Russian kid steps meekly onto the bridge, as if he anticipates getting yelled at. Nobody says anything as he rushes to his seat and quietly dismisses his replacement. He’s stiff and clearly distraught, but Jim doesn’t know who on the ship isn’t at least a little upset.

“So what do we do now, besides rounding up all the survivors?” Jim asks. The question is directed at Spock, who doesn’t so much as glance in Jim’s direction. “We’ve got to go after Pike, right?”

“We will send a message to Starfleet command informing them of the situation. Cadet Uhura?”

“On it, sir.”

That sounds like a terrible idea to Jim, but he’s not going to question Spock’s orders on the bridge, in front of everybody. Not right now.

“Sir, I’ve sent a message to the Starfleet base ordering them to prepare for an influx of refugees.” Uhura’s tone doesn’t change, but Jim can read the tension in her shoulders and knows that it’s hard for her to refer to Vulcans as refugees. For such a proud race, the word refugee almost seems like an insult.

“Very well.”

“I’ve received a surprisingly quick response asking, and I quote, what in the ever-loving bloody hell happened to Vulcan. They also ask where the refugees are supposed to be coming from.”

“Inform then that Vulcan has been destroyed and that the refugees will be arriving as soon as they possibly can in any way that they are able to.”

“Yes sir.”

“Ask if he needs any help preparing the outpost for an influx of occupants in the thousands,” Jim tells Nyota.

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he nearly cringes. He should’ve suggested the idea to Spock and let him give the order, but instead he’d given the order to Nyota himself and acted like a captain, not a first officer. He needs to remember that he’s not Spock’s equal here.

“Sir?” Nyota asks. She’s looking at Spock for confirmation, thank goodness.

“A logical idea. Do it.”

“Yes, sir.”

The silence surrounding them— and it’s not silence, technically, there’s the hubbub of machinery, but nobody’s talking to them and asking them for advice— seems to crawl down Jim’s throat and suffocate him from the inside. There’s so many things he wants to say to Spock, but it’s just not appropriate. They’re currently boss and subordinate, not boyfriends or soulmates, and everything that Jim wants to say would just embarrass Spock.

“The base officers would greatly appreciate any help we can spare, sir.”

“Very well. James, You will lead the away team. Take as many officers as you need.”

“How many... How many do you estimate survived? What would you suggest we prepare for?”

“Prepare as best you can.”

“Right.”

Jim has no clue what that means, really, but he’s not going to grill Spock on the specifics of hosting the remnants of his people. So he leaves, bringing both Sulu and the Russian kid, whose name he learns is Chekov, with him.

He ends up leading a force of around seventy. They’ve all been stricken numb by the tragedy, but the thought of doing anything to help invigorates them. Righteous fire floods their veins, and even the bitter cold of Delta Vega can’t slow them.

“What can we do to help?” Jim asks the people who greet them. They’re an odd group, consisting of an enthusiastic Scotsman, a small green fellow whose species name Jim can’t recall, and an elderly Vulcan.

“Captain Kirk,” the elderly Vulcan greets him. He sounds somewhat awed and incredibly pained. His eyes are remarkably Human for a Vulcan, or perhaps it’s the scale of the tragedy that allows his emotions to be so readable.

“Uh, no,” Jim says. “I’m— I’m the Acting First Officer.”

“I see,” he says, stilted. He almost sounds dismayed, and Jim figures that it’s due to his slip-up. “My apologies for the error.”

“Oh, don’t worry.” He laughs. “It’s a bit of an ego boost, you thinking I could be the captain.”

“You could very well be.” The Vulcan’s eyes are piercing, sharp as all hell and oddly familiar. “Never underestimate yourself.”

“...Right,” Jim says, feeling like the conversation has gone far off-course. “Uh, anyways, how can we help?”

They manage to set up seven thousand beds before the first survivors begin to arrive. Those who are fit enough to help pitch in, and in the end, eleven thousand beds are crammed into the base. They fill both shuttle bays, litter hallways and rooms that aren’t vital to the base’s function.

“How many do you think there are?” Jim asks the elderly Vulcan who mistitled him earlier. They’re stood back from the mess, watching Vulcans claim beds, search for family members and reunite with a subtle passion and relief that makes Jim’s throat tighten.

“I estimate little more than ten thousand.”

The elderly Vulcan watches a child stumble down the hallway, her face drawn. He steps forward and crouches down in front of her, then asks in Vulcan, _“May I heal you, little one?”_

She looks at him and says tremulously, _“I want my mommy.”_

It knocks the breath from Jim’s lungs. He walks away without seeing if the Vulcan ever gets to help the little girl, but hasn’t gone more than fifty feet before he bumps right into Scotty, the ironically-named Scotsman.

“Hey, laddie.”

“Scotty.”

“Where are ye all goin’ off to, after this?”

Jim shrugs. He hasn’t gotten any word from Spock yet.

“I have no clue. Either Starfleet command hasn’t gotten back to Spock, or Spock just hasn’t told me the verdict.” He scowls. “I hope we’re going after Nero. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“Aye, yes, makes sense,” Scotty says. His nod feels just a tad too enthusiastic. “Will ye be leaving any crew to help Keenser an’ I take care of the Vulcans?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe.”

“Oh, Mister Scott, I think it would be a great deal more useful should you and Mister Keenser join the crew of the _Enterprise,”_ the elderly Vulcan says. Jim jumps; he hadn’t known the guy was there.

“Would it?” Scotty asks.

“It would. After all, the ship could use such a brilliant engineer as yourself should they be pursuing Nero.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Jim says, perhaps a tad more snappish than he should, “but who are you?”

“I...” The Vulcan looks around, as if to ensure that no one is listening, then drops his voice and murmurs, “I am Spock.”

“Spock?” Jim asks incredulously.

“I am from another Universe, one parallel to yours. Nero and I hail from the same Universe, although my arrival here occurred twenty-five years after his, assumedly due to temporal and spacial warping caused by inter-Universal travel.”

“Right,” Jim says, not making an effort to hide the fact that he thinks the old Vulcan has gone bonkers with grief.

“James,” the Vulcan says. His eyes are nearly pleading. “I know you. Your name is written on my chest, and although he is not you, he is, in fact, you.”

“I’m not going to ask you to strip, but I really don’t believe you.”

“I don’ know what I have to do with this?” Scotty asks, looking for all the Universe like he wants nothing more than to leave, and fast.

“Mister Scott, you are the CEO of the _Enterprise_ where I am from. Your genius saved all of our lives on multiple occasions. I am attempting to ensure that you are able to exhibit your genius in this Universe instead of languishing at a desolate Starfleet base.”

“Listen, sir.” Jim’s patience is running thin. “Unless you can prove to me that you’re who you say you are—“

“I assure you, I can.”

“Great. How?”

“If I may be given permission to meld with you, I can show you that I am who I claim to be.”

“A meld?” Jim wavers. “Uh, I mean, aren’t those pretty personal?”

“This would not be a full meld, I assure you. It would be a transfer of information and memories, not a true joining. I would see nothing of your mind.”

“Oh.” Jim swallows, considers his options. “Alright, then.”

The Vulcan nods and reaches up towards Jim’s face. “My mind to your mind—“

_My thoughts to your thoughts._

Jim wakes up on the floor. There are hands under his head, a soft cradle preventing his head from touching the ground. His chest feels like it might split at any moment and eject his aching, bleeding heart. Hot tears spill from his eyes when he tries to blink them open. Spock crouches above him— the other Spock, the one from a Universe different than the one Jim was born in— and looks openly worried. Scotty paces in the background.

“Holy shit,” Jim gasps, his chest hitching with sobs he can’t control.

“I am very sorry,” Spock says. “Melds can be highly emotional occurrences, and I admit that my mental shields are not quite as strong as they should be.”

It’s not even the emotions that Jim is overwhelmed by, it’s the fact that— “His name, his killer’s name.”

“Yes?” Spock asks. His brows are knitted. Jim doesn’t know how he could ever have doubted that this was Spock, now that they’ve melded. His facial expressions are exactly the same.

“It’s different than mine.”

“I would assume so.”

“No, I— It—“ Jim swallows hard and whispers so that Scotty can’t hear, “Mine is the same as my soul mark.”

Spock pales, manages to murmur, “So I or he will...?”

“Yeah.”

“I see. That is... most unfortunate.”

“Yeah.”

Spock pulls Jim to his feet. They stare at each other for a few moments, both grieving over an event that has yet to happen. Jim looks away first, unable to bear the pain in Spock’s eyes.

“Does the other me know?”

“No.”

“I see.”

“It’s— It’s fine. I’ll tell him eventually.” Spock looks skeptical. Jim doesn’t blame him. “Don’t tell him. He’ll think it’s him, even if it might be you, too.”

“I would never.” Spock doesn’t even pretend to hide his horror.

“Neither would he,” Jim says softly.

They fall silent.

“Captain Spock to First Officer Kirk.” Jim almost smirks at the lack of a rank, but is just a tad too solemn to do so.

“Yes, Captain?”

“We have been contacted by Starfleet Command. Return yourself and your personnel to the ship with all due haste.”

“Yes, sir.“

Jim glances at Spock— man, he’s going to have to come up with a distinguisher at some point. Other Spock? Old Spock?— and feels the faint, tremulous connection left over from their meld whisper about destiny and a mad Scotsman.

“Uh, sir?” Jim asks before Spock can cut their communication. “Would it be permissible for me to bring aboard other crewmen from the base? There’s an engineer here that I believe could really help us out.”

“I trust your judgement. I also trust that I will see you soon?”

“Of course you will. All due haste.” Jim is hyper aware of the words printed on the skin under his tattoo, and resists the urge to scratch at it like that could possibly cure his fate. He hopes that Spock can’t tell that he’s been crying.

Jim looks at Scotty when the call disconnects. He seems a little excited, and Jim doesn’t blame Jim. Delta Vega’s base seems far too cold and barren for any Human to enjoy, except perhaps those from northern Scandinavia.

“Come on,” Jim says, jerking his head.

“Yes, yes, ah jus’ need— _Keenser!_ There ye are!”

A small green head pops out from around the corner. Jim is unsure of where the little guy came from, but he’s not sure he cares all that much. He has to corral the force of workers he brought with him, and that feels like it’ll take more effort than Jim really cares to expend.

Yet they all make it back to the ship in one piece, Scotty and Keenser included. Jim hasn’t heard Keenser speak, doesn’t even know if he can, but he and Scotty seem to be able to understand each other and that’s all that really matters.

“We took on extra crew members?” Spock asks when they arrive. He’s standing and waiting for them, the final transport consisting of Jim, Scotty, and Keenser.

“Yeah. I was persuaded by a Vulcan elder.”

Spock raises his eyebrow. It’s such a simple gesture, one of his more common ones, but it strikes Jim numb with grief. He sees Amanda giving him a quirked grin and that same raised eyebrow, hears Spock’s aborted shout held back and transformed into a short gasp. He clenches his hands into fists and shoves the emotions away from him. He can’t afford to be compromised, and so he won’t be. It’s as simple as that.

“I see.”

“They can help,” Jim insists. “Scotty’s an engineer, and we could use one, especially after losing Olson. Keenser is...” Jim glances back over his shoulder at the two of them.

“Aye, he’s an engineer too,” says Scotty.

“Excellent! Now we’re up an engineer.” Jim spreads his hands, almost like a physical ‘ta da!’

Spock doesn’t express any sort of emotion, and Jim feels it under his skin in a way that he’s fairly certain that he shouldn’t. The halfhearted grin he manages to summon slides from his face.

“The two of you can report to engineering, however I do believe that you are now chief of engineering, Mister Scott.”

“I—“ Scotty blinks. “Really?”

“Indeed.”

“Huh. Alright then.”

Spock seems altogether too tight, like he’s been squeezed to the point where he looks composed. Jim’s just worried that once the pressure lifts up even a little, Spock’ll shatter and fly apart like a grenade of grief has gone off in his chest. It’s a disturbing thought.

They ride in silence on their way up to the bridge. Jim feels like he’s about to jump out of his own skin, balanced on a knife’s edge. He doesn’t know what lays on either side, and doesn’t want to. Finally he speaks, unable to bear the silence any longer.

“So what’s the verdict from HQ?”

“We have no strict orders, however we have been encouraged to rendezvous with several Starfleet ships in the Laurentian system.”

“So what do you plan on doing?”

The doors open then, and Spock doesn’t answer Jim directly but instead strides into the bridge with his too-composed steps and says, “Mister Chekov, lay in a course to the Laurentian system.”

Jim can’t stop the deep spike of disappointment that barrels through him. He knows on a fundamental level that it’s the wrong decision, but Spock obviously hasn’t come to the same conclusion. He swallows, thinks of clearing his throat and recommending that they change course, changes his mind.

“Course laid in, sir.”

“Engage.”

Jim loiters awkwardly by Spock’s chair, words building up in his diaphragm until they compress his lungs and demand expulsion. He licks his lips, opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again.

“Captain,” he says, deciding to take the formal route.

Spock looks up at him. “Yes?”

His eyes are haunted. The force around him is relenting, and he’s consequently unraveling. Jim feels terrible for adding any extra force, because if applied wrong then Spock will shatter, but Jim owes this to his father.

“I’d like to speak with you in your ready room, sir.”

Spock nods and stands, but Jim can see hints of anxiety in the way his wrists are positioned. He follows silently, well aware of the look that Nyota is sending him. He doesn’t look at her, feeling far older than he knows he is.

“What was it that you wished to speak with me about?”

Jim swallows his own anxiety, says plainly, “We need to go after Nero. Meeting up in the Laurentian system is a bad idea.”

Spock raises an eyebrow, but says nothing.

“Nero’s going after Earth next. We have to stop him before he— before he destroys Earth, too.”

“I do not know if he would do that.” Spock sits in the chair behind the desk, looking ill-at-ease there. “He wanted me to see something. The destruction of my home planet.”

“You’re half Human, Spock. He might assume you view Earth as a home planet, too, especially since you’ve been living there while at Starfleet.”

“Yet he singled me out. If he knew enough about me to single me out, then it is a reasonable assumption that he would know that I do not view Earth as my home.”

“Okay, fine.” Jim resists the urge to cross his arms. “What about Pike? We have to save him.”

“We are technologically outmatched in every way. A rescue attempt would be futile.”

“How do you know we’re so outmatched?” Jim demands. He’s having a vision of Spock explaining the Kobayashi Maru with greatly stifled irritation. The point is to lose gracefully. Fuck that. “Are you declaring this a no-win scenario?”

“The engineering comprehension necessary to artificially create a black hole may suggest an answer. Such technology could theoretically be manipulated to create a tunnel through space-time.”

“You’re saying we’re outmatched because he’s, what, from the future?” Jim tries to sound derisive, like he didn’t have that revealed to him via a mind meld.

“Indeed.”

“And what would an angry, future Romulan want with Captain Pike?” Jim asks, trying to step Spock through to the correct answer.

“As Captain, he does know details concerning Starfleet’s defenses.”

Jim raises his eyebrows. “Exactly, and as I’m sure you noticed, Nero was far from rational. His grudge is deeply personal, and not only is it against you for some reason, but it’s against the entire Federation.”

“State plainly what you are implying.” Spock’s tone is severe. Jim watches his hands clench and unclench.

“We go after Nero. We rescue Captain Pike and prevent the destruction of Earth and other Federation planets. We save the day like the awesome badasses we are.”

“How are we supposed to find Nero? He would have to drop out of warp for us to catch him.”

“Then have the engineers boost our warp gear.”

“They are currently occupied fixing radiation leaks on the lower decks.”

“Well there has to be some way of catching up to Nero.”

“Negative. We must reconvene with Starfleet and balance the terms of the next engagement.”

“Next engagement?!” Jim feels like reaching over the desk and shaking some sense back into Spock. “There won’t be a next engagement, and if there is, he’ll decimate us again! Didn’t you see what he did to the other ships?”

“I saw perfectly well what occurred over Vulcan.” Spock’s tone is icy, deeply stung.

“Listen to me, Spock. If you say he’s from the future, then the best thing to do is to be unpredictable.”

“You assume that Nero knows how these events are to unfold. He, by traveling to the past, has created an entirely new Universe. He is just as ignorant as us.”

“You’re implying that this is now an alternate reality.”

“Indeed.”

“Spock, this is a massive waste of time,” Jim insists.

“I find it astonishing that, with no practical command experience, you have the gall to inform me that the decisions that I am making quite carefully are wrong.”

Spock’s tone is the most severe Jim’s ever heard it, even more severe than it was during their argument over the Kobayashi Maru. Jim barely refrains from leaning backwards as if to distance himself from the heat in Spock’s voice. He curbs his tongue and looks, really looks.

Spock is paralyzed.

His skin is green, but not so in a healthy Vulcan shade. It’s waxy, bleak in its lack of color like he’s just thrown up. Jim can tell he hasn’t, but he may be well on his way. His eyes are too dark, reminiscent of photos Jim has seen of frightened, wounded deer. He’s hurt, scared, waiting for the final blow. His fingers on the desk are too still. The muscles in his jaw are so tense that Jim can nearly see the individual sinews.

“You—“ Jim breathes, and cuts himself off. Antagonizing an emotionally compromised Vulcan is a good way to get yourself killed, especially if that Vulcan’s name is on your arm.

“What?” Spock’s breathing is too deep and even, too perfect to be normal.

“You’re emotionally compromised,” Jim blurts, as if getting it out there faster will somehow make the situation better.

“I must ask you to repeat yourself,” Spock says blandly. A cold fear is settling at the base of Jim’s diaphragm, making it hard to breathe, but he can’t allow himself to back down when another entire planet is on the line.

Jim draws himself up tall, pulls his shoulders back, makes sure to steady his voice. “You’re emotionally compromised.”

“I assure you, I am not.”

“Spock.” Jim’s patience is wearing thin. Every second that they argue is a second wasted. “You just lost your mother. I know how much she meant to you, and all the Vulcan control in the Universe can’t change the fact that deep down inside, you’re a hot mess.”

“I—“

“Don’t lie to me,” Jim snaps. “You and I both know that I’m right.”

“You, too, loved her,” Spock replies, tone sharp.

Spock’s words have deflated something in Jim, some balloon of anger. He sighs and scrubs his hands over his face. What he wouldn’t do to just... stop time and take a nap.

“I loved her,” he admits. “I did. But she wasn’t my mother, Spock.”

Spock’s jaw clenches and unclenches. Jim thinks he can see tears shining in his dark eyes.

“I...”

“Spock,” Jim whispers. “You’re emotionally compromised, and no amount of repression is going to change that.”

Jim watches as Spock bows his head and then stands. It hurts to see Spock so defeated, and Jim wishes he could do something to help but knows that there’s no bringing Amanda back. There’s no tightening his grip on her, no readjusting so that he’s holding her and not her clothing.

“I hereby relinquish command due to emotional compromise.” Spock’s voice is a shamed whisper. “Please note the time and date in the ship’s log.”

“Spock—“ Jim says, falters and stops when Spock lifts his head because he looks well and truly shattered. Jim knows he’s the captain now and has to act like it, has to stop Nero, yet he can’t help but take a moment. “Oh, Spock.” He steps forward and frames Spock’s face with his hands, Spock’s downcast and sickly face. He kisses Spock’s forehead, his nose, his mouth. Spock doesn’t move except to sag just slightly in Jim’s grasp.

“I do not know what to do. My— My emotions... they are overwhelming.”

“Meditate,” Jim offers. “Do the best you can. It’ll be better than nothing.”

“I do not believe you know this, but my father stayed aboard the ship, although the remainder of the High Council is on Delta Vega with...”

“You don’t have to say it. It’s okay. Just—“ Jim brushes his thumbs over the peach-soft lobes of Spock’s ears. He takes a deep breath, focuses on exhaling citizen-Jim and leaving only captain-Jim. “Do the best you can to center yourself.”

Spock gently separates himself from Jim, tugs his shoulders up, and walks towards the door. If Jim were anyone else, he knows he’d miss the way that Spock’s steps are ever-so-slightly jerky. He turns away from the door as it swishes open, hands on his hips and eyes closes. One deep breath, two, three, and Jim thinks he could reasonably claim to be in the mindset of a captain.

“Chekov,” Jim orders as he steps into the bridge, making sure to keep his spine straight and shoulders back, “plot a course to Earth.” Chekov looks at him blankly. He sighs and says, “Spock is emotionally compromised and has relinquished command to me.”

Chekov nods and turns back to the main console. “Course laid in.”

“Sulu, engage. Maximum warp.”

“Aye sir.”

“Also, I’m naming you first officer if you don’t mind.”

Sulu turns his chair and looks over his shoulder at Jim. His face portrays incredulity. “Uh, no. I— I don’t mind.”

“Good. Uhura, relay to Starfleet Command that we have decided against regrouping and will be chasing Nero’s trail while we still can.”

“Yes sir.”

Jim glances at her and catches her gaze before she turns her head towards her console. Her dark eyes are frightened but equally as trusting, and it’s that more than anything that gives Jim a sense of confidence.

The comm unit on Jim’s chair beeps, and he answers it with a pang of both thrill and anxiety deep in his stomach. “Yes?”

“Jim?”

“Bones?”

“What are you doing answering the command chair’s comm?”

“I, uh, I’m the captain now. What are you doing coming the bridge? Isn’t that the CMO’s job?”

“Doctor Puri is head; he was caught up in the explosion on deck six. I’m the CMO now.”

“Huh, go figure.”

“What’s goin’ on, kid?”

“We’re going after Nero.”

“I see.”

“What’s going on in sickbay? You contacted the bridge for a reason, I assume.”

“Yeah, just an update on what’s going on down here. We’re running low on supplies, but no one’s critical. Everyone’s dead or in the clear.”

“That’s... good.”

“I’ll let you get back to captaining, then.”

“Yeah, and I’ll let you get back to doctoring.”

“Ain’t much doctorin’ left to do, but... thanks.”

They disconnect awkwardly, but Jim is instilled with a new sense of confidence and relief. Bones is alive, and he doesn’t seem to think that Jim’s going to butcher the whole captaining thing and get them all killed. It’s dearly needed reassurance.

“Okay,” he murmurs to himself. “Okay. Everything’s going to be fine. Lieutenant Uhura, put me through to the entire ship.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Attention crew of the _Enterprise_ , this is Kirk. Mister Spock has resigned commission and advanced me to Acting Captain. I know you were all expecting to regroup with the fleet, but I’m ordering a purist course of the enemy ship to Earth. I want all departments at battle stations and ready in ten minutes. Either we’re going down, or they are. Kirk out.”

A few minutes later, once he’s gathered himself and isn’t in danger of falling apart, he summons both Mister Scott and Bones to the bridge. Once they’re all there, he speaks to his assembles crew. “We need a plan, and I haven’t been struck by divine inspiration. I’m open to ideas.”

“So he’s going for Earth,” Sulu says.

“Yes.”

“Can we hide behind something?”

“Like what? He’d be able to sense us if we hid behind the moon.”

“Mars?” Nyota suggests.

“No, he’d be able to sense us anywhere within the solar system.”

“What about Titan?” Sulu suggests.

“Stats on Titan?” Jim asks the bridge at large.

Chekov, who seems to be ignoring their conversation in favor of scribbling calculations, gasps. “Keptin Kork!”

“Yeah?” Christ, but the kid’s so little. He looks a far cry from twenty-two.

“Based on the fastest course from Wulcan, I have projected that Nero will travel past Saturn. Like you said, we need to stay inwisible to Nero or he'll destroy us. If Mister Scott can get us to warp factor four, and if we drop out of warp behind one of Saturn's moons— like Titan— the magnetic distortion from the planet's rings will make us inwisible to Nero's sensors. From there, as long as the drill is not actiwated we can beam aboard the enemy ship.”

“That might work.” Scotty sounds both delighted and shocked.

“Hang on,” Bones demands. “How old are you?”

“Sewenteen, sir.”

“Oh.” Bones looks at Jim with an indescribable expression. “Oh, good, he’s seventeen.”

“I can confirm Mister Chekov’s calculations,” Spock says. Jim starts; he hadn’t heard him enter. Instead of inflating with pride, Chekov seems to shrink, and Jim remembers quite unpleasantly that it was Chekov who beamed them up from Vulcan.

“Thank you, sir.” His voice is meek.

Spock continues as if Chekov never spoke. “If Mister Sulu is able to maneuver us into position, I can beam aboard Nero’s ship, steal back the black hole device, and if possible, bring back Captain Pike.”

“I can’t let you do that,” Jim protests, although he knows it’ll take little pushing for him to give in.

“Romulans and Vulcans share a common ancestry. Our cultural similarities will make it easier for me to access the ship's computer to locate the device. Also, my mother was Human, which makes Earth the only home I have left.”

And there it is. Jim sighs before he says, “I’m coming with you.”

“I would cite regulation if I knew that you would not simply ignore it.”

Jim smiles. “Mister Sulu, you’re in charge.”

Long enough later that it’s felt like an eternity under the time constraints they have, the transporter room finally receives word from the bridge that they’re in position around Titan. Jim takes a long, deep breath.

“Alright, then, let’s go.” Before he joins Spock on the transporter platform, he leans in to the transporter controls, the comm of which is still active. “Whatever happens, Mister Sulu, if you think you have the tactical advantage, you fire on that ship, even if we’re still on board. That’s an order.”

“...Yes, sir.”

“Otherwise, we’ll contact the _Enterprise_ when we’re ready to be beamed back.”

“Good luck.”

“Alrightie,” Scotty says once Jim and Spock are both in place on the platform. “If the ship’s design has any common sense, ah should be puttin’ ye right in the middle of a cargo bay. There shouldn’t be a soul in sight.”

“Excellent.” Jim nods at him. “Energize.”

It takes only a moment before Jim makes a mental note to not only murder Scotty should he make it out alive, but Old Spock too for encouraging Jim to trust the mad engineer. They’re about as far from a cargo bay as possible, and are surrounded by Romulans milling about. Jim ducks and feels phaser fire pass so close to him that it singes his hair. He and Spock bolt, bounding over and under the convoluted, completely unnecessary pipes and other assorted obstacles.

“Who designs a ship like this?” Jim demands breathlessly, diving behind a tank-like structure that he prays isn’t flammable as another blast of phaser fire scorches the wall right behind where he’d just been.

“Romulans,” Spock replies, keeping pace with Jim.

They weave down hallways, leaving their pursuers in the metaphorical dust. Eventually they stumble into what Jim believes is the actual cargo bay, and sag against the wall as they try to recover.

“I’m going to murder Scotty,” Jim gasps, and lets his head thunk backwards against the wall.

“While I do not condone murdering a fellow officer,” Spock says, also struggling to breath evenly, “I can understand why you might be greatly tempted to do so.”

A Romulan rounds a corner near them and, for a moment, seems entirely stunned to see a Human and Vulcan just hanging out in the cargo bay. Spock takes advantage of his shock to stun him, and the Romulan drops to the floor without even a shout of surprise.

“I must search his mind. Protect me.”

“Of course.”

Jim doesn’t know how many Romulans he could hold off should they be discovered, but he doesn’t have to worry for long.

“I have the information we need.”

“The black hole device?”

“Indeed.”

“And Captain Pike?”

“I know his location as well.”

Something deep under their feet begins to hum. The drill.

“We’re on our own,” Jim says. “They can’t beam us out with the drill in operation.”

Spock stands and turns to face Jim. “So we will find our own way off of the ship once we have what we came for.”

“So what’s our plan? Black hole device and then Pike?”

“No. The longer we are on the ship, the higher our chances of capture will be. I ascertained through the meld that the black hole device is, in actuality, a ship. I propose that I steal the ship and destroy the drill while you rescue Captain Pike. Once the drill is destroyed, the Enterprise will be able to beam you aboard.”

“But I don’t know where he is. How am I supposed to rescue him?”

“A shallow meld would allow me to transfer my knowledge of Captain Pike’s location to you.”

“Alright. Quickly, though. We’ve been here for too long.”

Jim is, quite reasonably, worried about emotional transference, but the meld is far different than the one he so recently shared with Old Spock. He supposes it’s the content of the meld, but can’t help feeling grateful anyway that he wasn’t brought to tears by this one.

“Okay,” Jim says, giving Spock a firm nod. “I’ll see you back on board.”

“Indeed.”

The crew seems to be few in number for such a large ship; the hallways feel deserted. The emptiness provides a sense of invincibility, almost, a sense that Jim comes to regret immensely when he rounds a corner without looking and finds himself facing none other than Nero himself and one of his Romulan goonies. He stops short and brings up his phaser.

“Nero,” he says, “order your men to disable the drill or I’ll—”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence. Moving faster than Jim had thought he could, the goonie leaps for Jim and knocks him down. Jim struggles under the goonie, but they’re just as strong as Vulcans. Jim has no hope of escape, especially not after his phaser was knocked from his hands and set skidding several feet away.

“I know you from Earth’s history, James Kirk,” Nero says. He approaches where Jim is being held immobile by the goonie and crouches down, smiling. “Your features are different, but I’d know the magnificent—” The word is saturated in sarcasm. “—Captain James Tiberius Kirk anywhere. He was considered a great man in my Universe, captained the Enterprise for years. But that’s another Universe, another life.” Nero’s grin is filthy. “A life I will deprive you of, just like I did your father.” Jim bares his teeth at Nero, unable to conquer the pure fury burning in his blood.

The humming far under them stops.

“Captain Nero!” some poor Romulan bastard says through Nero’s comm, sounding panicked and frustrated. “The Vulcan ship has been taken and the drill destroyed!”

Nero’s face contorts into a fury almost beyond description. “Spock,” he growls. He stands and nods at the goonie. “Take him out, Ayel.”

With quick footsteps, Nero disappears. It’s just Jim and Ayel, now, locked together on the floor. Ayel wraps his hands around Jim’s neck and straddles his waist for leverage. Jim spits and writhes as his air supply is cut off, bucking with all the strength in him, but only uses one of his hands to tug at Ayel’s wrists.

“Your species is even weaker than I expected,” Ayel sneers. His smile is bloodthirsty.

“I—” Jim gasps. His vision is darkening around the edges.

Ayel laughs. “You can’t even speak. What is it, little Human?”

“I’ve got your gun,” Jim rasps, yanks the phaser from the holster on Ayel’s waist, and shoots him in the stomach. Ayel’s expression melts into one of pure shock, the last face he’ll ever make. He topples sideways off of Jim.

Jim can’t move for several seconds. He can only lay on the ground and suck in massive breaths that make his throat ache and his head spin. Before he’s fully ready, he forces himself to his feet and snags both phasers before staggering down the hallway towards the location where Pike is being held.

Just as Jim bursts into one of many torture rooms aboard Nero’s ship, he recognizes the dull whining sounds of a ship firing phasers. He doesn’t have much time, but thankfully he doesn’t need it. Strapped to a table in the center of the room is Captain Pike. He turns his head wearily towards the entrance as Jim stumbles inside, and Jim watches his face shift from the stern expression of a Starfleet captain under duress to a pleasantly surprised expression.

“Cadet Kirk? What are you doing here?” he asks.

“It’s currently Captain Kirk,” Jim says, just to be cheeky. With fingers that still tremble from his recent oxygen deprivation, Jim manages to undo the straps around Pike’s wrists and ankles. He hauls Pike up, supporting him when Pike’s legs fail. _“Enterprise,_ now!”

The ship disappears around them, and when Jim is greeted by the sight of Scotty’s beaming face, he can almost forget his personal vow to murder the guy.

“Good job, Scotty,” Jim says as Bones takes Pike from him, whose legs still don’t seem to be working.

Spock comes up to him as Jim steps off of the platform, grabs his arm to stop him. When Jim looks at him, his eyes are soft with worry.

“Jim, your neck.”

“Oh.” Jim brings a hand up to brush along the bruises he can feel. They must already be visible, then. “Yeah. I ran right into Nero and a goon named Ayel. I’m just lucky he went for the strangling route and not the neck-snapping route.”

Spock’s grip tightens to a degree that’s just shy of painful. “Do not jest.”

“It’s a coping mechanism.”

Spock drops the subject. “We must report to the bridge. I crashed thes hip containing the black hole device into Nero’s ship. It should shortly cease to exist.”

“Did you? Sweet.”

The air on the bridge when they step out of the turbolift is one of anticipation and impending relief.

“Keptin, the enemy ship is losing power,” Chekov says. “Their shields are down, sir.”

“Hail them now.”

“Aye.’

Nero’s face, twisted with rage, appears on the viewscreen. Sparks fly behind him as his behemoth ship begins to fail, torn apart from the inside out. His chest heaves, although Jim’s not sure if it’s from anger or exertion. Hell, it might just be a trick of the screen; the image is grainy and shaky.

“This is Captain James T. Kirk of the USS Enterprise. Your ship is compromised. Your too close to the singularity to provide assistance, which we will provide.”

“What are you doing?” Spock murmurs.

“Showing compassion may be the only way to earn peace with Romulus. It's logic, Spock. And basic diplomacy— I did pay attention in class, you know.”

Spock hums, clearly displeased. 

“I would rather suffer the end of Romulus a thousand times,” Nero spits. “I would rather die in _agony_ than accept assistance from you.”

“You got it. Arm phasers, fire everything we got.” Jim does his best to conceal the near-glee that the thought of killing his father’s murderer gives him, but he’s not so sure he does a good job.

“Yes, sir.” Sulu sounds equally as pleased as Jim, which will be a small consolation later when he inevitably feels guilty about enjoying the thought of killing someone, even someone as insane and brutal as Nero.

The Enterprise’s phasers look beautiful as they explode against the Narada. The bridge is silent as they watch a black hole swell from the center of the ship, swallowing the Enterprise’s phasers and the Narada itself. They watch until the ship is completely gone, and only then do they stop firing the ship’s phasers.

All at once Jim feels cold, and tired, and pained, and his voice is quiet when he says, “Sulu, let's go home.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sulu turns the ship around, and for several moments, nothing happens.

“Why aren't we at warp?” Jim asks.

“We are, sir,” Chekov says. He sounds somewhere between amazed, curious, and scared shitless.

Jim turns and slaps the comm unit built into the captain’s chair. “Kirk to engineering. Get us out of here, Scotty.”

“Uh, the gravity well’s got us, sir.”

Jim’s blood freezes. “Go to maximum warp,” he orders. “Push it!”

“Ah’m given ‘er all she’s got, Cap’n!”

The ship gives a mighty, weary groan as extreme gravitational forces do their best to tug her and her crew into oblivion after Nero. Jim strokes the chair, murmurs, “Hold on, honey. It’s almost over.” Behind him, he hears the viewscreen— multiple feet thick in order to withstand the pressure of space— crack, as if in response.

Someone begins to pray with a watery voice. It’s a prayer for sailors, strikingly enough, and one for sailors of the stars specifically. “Heavenly Father, I pray for the sailors who dare to brush the edges of the Celestial Kingdom, that they may be brought home safe from afar to the Earth that You have blessed. I pray that You fortify the hulls of their ships, that You protect them from unearthly weather, that you extend the bounds of Your love and protection to where the farthest of Your children roam, however far from You they may be. Thank You for Your love and Your guidance. Amen.”

“All she’s got isn’t good enough! What else can you do?!”

“Well, if we eject the core and detonate it, that might be enough to push us away, but ah cannae promise anything!”

Jim turns to face the fractured viewscreen. A cold pit grows in his stomach as he watches the cracks grow bigger. Chekov is trembling in his seat. Sulu, in contrast, has gone perfectly still.

“Do it!” Jim shouts into the comm. “Do it, do it!”

The comm goes dead. Nobody on the bridge is tending to their stations except Sulu and Chekov. Jim slowly turns around to, like the rest of the bridge crew, face the viewscreen. The ship groans again, and this time Jim thinks he feels the floor itself shift under his feet.

He and Spock stand side by side, so close that their arms brush and Jim can feel the immense heat that Spock radiates. Jim reaches out wordlessly and links his pinkie finger with Spock. It’s a kiss and a hug and an “I love you” all at once. It’s his final, silent words.

And then the ship is rocked by a massive explosion. Nearly everyone is thrown from their seats or thrown to the ground, with the exception of Chekov and Sulu. Smartly, they wrapped their legs around the base of their chairs so that they were only jostled and not thrown. Jim looks up from his new position on the floor and watches Sulu flip this switch and that, torque this control, press that button. The ship shudders badly underneath them, and Jim begins his own silent prayer. All the ship has to do is stay together. They can limp back to Earth, even if it’ll take them weeks. At least they’ll be alive, but they won’t be able to do anything if the ship falls apart while they’re still on it.

The ship stills beneath them. Everyone pushes themselves to their feet, each person looking at those next to them with equal bewilderment and cautious hope.

“Cap’n,” Scotty says over the reopened comm line, and Jim can hear his smile. “We’re in the clear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I’m drowning in calculus and college applications, but my first application is due by December 1st so I should hopefully have more time and less stress starting then. Unfortunately, I’m certain that there won’t be another update before December 1st at the earliest. I’m writing slowly but surely, though, so don’t worry!


	6. Climb

The final night before Jim boards the _Enterprise_ as her new captain and leads her into the black, he doesn’t go to any bars or clubs or even into the city proper. He spends it at Starfleet Medical’s rehabilitation center with Nyota, Bones, and Gaila.

Although Gaila had been one of the few survivors of the massacre above Vulcan, she’d been badly injured. Even the most cutting-edge medical technology couldn’t instantly cure almost total irradiation of the spinal nerves. It would be a long time before she could walk again, if ever.

“So how have you been feeling?” Nyota asks. While Jim and Bones sit by the bed, Nyota is currently sat criss-cross at the bottom of the biobed.

“Oh, I’ve been fine.” Gaila flaps a hand dismissively. “We’re here to celebrate the two of you making it out into space, with Jimmy as a captain!”

“I just got lucky. Anybody could’ve done what I did.”

“Bullshit.” Bones knocks his foot against Jim’s. “You act like you ain’t special when you are.”

“I’m not,” Jim insists. Something in his chest grows warm at the compliment anyway. “I just did what had to be done.”

“Len, this isn’t going to work,” Gaila sighs. “You’re trying to beat a dying horse.”

It’s a misuse of the euphemism, but they understand her anyways. They always do. Jim would make a joke about the Musketeers, but there’s four of them and they’ll be divided up into two duos tomorrow.

“We’ll name the first planet we discover after you,” Nyota says, patting Gaila’s foot.

“Don’t planets normally get named after dead people?” Gaila wrinkles her nose.

“Not always,” Jim says. “We’ll make sure it’s a sexy planet, don’t worry.”

“Hmm.” Gaila quirks a fiery red eyebrow at him, but her lips are twitching. She’s never been good at hiding her amusement.

“How are you going to judge what makes a planet sexy?” Bones asks.

“With my eyes.”

“I’m a little disturbed by the implications of that.” Nyota laughs while she says it, though, and so Jim can’t take her seriously.

Gaila says abruptly. “I’m going to miss you guys.” They all go silent, but Gaila continues. “I don’t want to be a dampener, but I love you all so much, and I—“ She sniffs. “—I know you’re going to do awesome things and I’m happy but I’m sad and I’m going to miss you.”

“Oh, Gaila.” Jim stands from where he’s been seated and perches beside her. “We love you too.”

“And we’ll miss you just as much as you’ll miss us.”

Jim gingerly pulls Gaila into a hug. She’s so physically fragile since the massacre, and he can’t hug her like he used to be able to. Her hair feels brittle against his neck and face, like she’s used a copious amount of hairspray, but that too is just a side-effect of the irradiation.

“Oh, I’m sorry for causing a scene,” Gaila hiccups. Bones has crowded around her too, now, and she’s cocooned in a mass of concerned Humans.

“Don’t be sorry,” Nyota tells her, equally stern and soft. “We all needed a group hug.”

“I don’t know if I did,” Bones mutters. He’s contorted into a rather precarious and uncomfortable-looking position in order to participate, and Jim is concerned hat something so small as the door opening would send him toppling over.

Gaila laughs, watery but genuine.

Jim thinks it might just tear his heart out to leave her behind when she was so enthusiastic about being his chief of engineering, a role that has now been taken by Scotty. His dream— so childish, now, in hindsight, so foolishly positive— is changed now. There’s no Gaila sprinting down the catwalks of engineering, no Gaila laughing in the mess hall with the stripes of a commander, no Gaila lecturing him on how she can’t push the ship past warp 10. It’s just Scotty, the man who Old Spock— now calling himself Selek— claimed belonged in the bowels of the Enterprise.

“Uh, excuse me.” There’s a nurse standing in the doorway. “Visiting hours are over. I’m afraid you’re all going to have to leave— including you, Doctor McCoy.”

They all gently remove themselves from Gaila and trudge out. Nyota and Jim drop final kisses on her forehead, and Bones promises he’ll see her tomorrow. It’s not an emotional parting until Gaila’s out of their sight, when Nyota sniffs and Jim bumps his arm gently into hers.

“We’ll see her again,” Jim says. “Don’t worry.”

“I’m just going to miss her so much.” Nyota’s voice cracks. “We’ve been roommates for four years now— she’s like my sister.”

“Am I not like your brother?” Jim demands. “You’ve got one sibling left, at least.”

“No, no.” She laughs, although it’s thick. “You’re right.”

“The bonds of sisterhood are too powerful,” Jim laments, slinging an arm over her shoulder. She leans into him like a crutch. “My meager brotherly love is no match.”

“God, you’re such a drama queen.” Bones rolls his eyes.

“You’re gonna miss me.”

“If you want to think so, kid.”

“We’ll miss you, too, of course,” Nyota says.

“I’ll be too busy worrying about you two fools to miss you.” Bones shakes his head. “I can’t even begin to imagine the shenanigans you’ll be getting up to.”

“Don’t lump me in with Jim. I’m the sensible one.”

“Of the two of you, yeah. That doesn’t actually make you sensible.” In the chilly air outside, Bones heaves a sigh and says “I’ve got an early shift tomorrow, so... bye for now.”

“Goodbye, Leonard.” Nyota embraces Bones and then steps back.

Jim steps forward then and wrestles Bones into a tight hug. “It’ll feel weird without you,” he says.

“Oh, you’ll get over it, kid. Comm me whenever you want, you hear? And listen to your CMO.”

“Okay, mom.” Jim rolls his eyes. “Have fun staying grounded.”

“Oh, I will,” Bones tells him genuinely.

They part ways for the first and last time on a perfect, crisp autumn evening in San Francisco. Of course, at the time, none of them know it.

  
  
  
  


Jim does his best to keep his promise about listening to his CMO, but the guy— and the situations the _Enterprise_ finds herself in— makes it so damn hard sometimes.

Jim offers Doctor M’Benga a sheepish smile when they rematerialize. What was supposed to be a simple observational away mission as well as a way to keep Jim from crawling out of his own skin from boredom had not remained as such. Jim maintained innocence. How was he supposed to know that the giant flytrap-like plants were sentient and could run?

“I told you no strenuous activity,” M’Benga chides him.

“I would have followed those instructions if a running plant hadn’t tried to eat me. What was I supposed to do? Ask it not to chase and eat me because of my doctor’s orders?”

M’Benga shakes his head and sighs. “Alright, I want the entire away team in sickbay to be checked over. Especially you, Captain.”

“Alright, alright. If I cooperate will you let me go back to my quarters instead of putting me back in sickbay?”

“We’ll see,” is all M’Benga says.

Jim, Lieutenant Sanchez, and Ensigns Jolie and Benoit all dutifully report to sickbay. M’Benga, probably because he’s upset, tends to Jim personally. Jim kicks his dangling legs like a little kid while M’Benga scans him.

“So how’d you come to end up covered in...” M’Benga gestures to him. “...whatever this is?”

“There was a plant that looked like a Venus flytrap,” Jim explained. “Lieutenant Sanchez was scanning it when it tried to eat her. We had no choice but to run when it started chasing us. Ensign Benoit tripped, I fell back to help him up, and it ate me.” He shrugs. “Thankfully it only wanted to digest me instead of chew me, and Ensign Benoit was able to kill it before I turned into dashingly handsome goo.”

“You were eaten by a giant Venus flytrap with legs.”

“Yeah. I wish I hadn’t been. It felt like being in the womb again, I think— very unpleasant for a grown man.”

“I’m sure.” Sometimes M’Benga sounds like he regrets ever joining Starfleet, especially in moments such as this. He stills and then looks up at Jim. “Wait, it tried to digest you?”

“Yeah.”

M’Benga looks back at his scanner with renewed interest. “Are you noticing any symptoms? Digestive materials can be highly toxic.”

“Uh...”

“Sir.”

“Well, yeah, now that I think of it, uh, my skin’s really itchy. And also it’s hard to breathe.”

M’Benga curses and does an endearing little run-jog to the medical supply cabinet, like he’s trying to rush but doesn’t want to rush fast enough to concern Jim. It’s a nice sentiment, but unwarranted, because Jim’s unconscious before he really has any time to panic.

He wakes up with Spock by his bedside.

“Morning, sunshine,” he croaks. Spock’s gaze swiftly shifts from concerned to disappointed.

“Jim.”

“Listen, I didn’t mean to get eaten by a Venus flytrap with legs. It just sort of happened.”

“I see.”

“Well what was I supposed to do?” Jim asks. “Let Ensign Benoit get eaten? It would scar him for life.”

“You experienced an extremely negative reaction to the plant’s digestive material, due in part to your myriad of allergies. Nearly anyone else in the ship would have fared better.”

“Ah, Captain Kirk, you’re awake.”

“Hey, doc. Sorry about passing out on you.”

“Don’t worry, I didn’t take it personally.”

“Now that I have ascertained your well-being, I must return to duty.” Spock stands from the uncomfortable chair that never changes, whether the biobed be on terra firma or on a starship.

Jim smiles and holds out two fingers for a kiss. “Thanks for visiting.”

Spock, although Jim can tell he’s still upset, reciprocates the gesture with eyes that have softened. M’Benga shakes his head when Spock’s gone.

“It’s funny,” he says. “I wouldn’t be able to tell if I hadn’t studied on Vulcan, but he loves you a lot.”

“I should hope so.” Jim raises his eyebrows. “He’s my soulmate.”

“Of course.” M’Benga taps at his data PADD. “Just lay there and rest for a bit, and then you’ll be good to go back to your quarters.”

It’s the end of alpha shift before Jim’s allowed to leave, and so Spock is in their quarters when Jim steps through the door. He stands from his desk and moves to embrace Jim.

As lovely as Spock’s embrace is, Jim can’t help but to be curious. “Spock? Not that I don’t love your hugs, but what is this for?”

“I am glad that you are well.” Spock pushes Jim back to arm’s length and levels him with a severely disappointed look. “Do not act in such an irrational manner again.”

“I had to,” Jim insists. “I couldn’t just let it eat one of my crewmembers.”

“Your safety is paramount, Jim.” Spock’s fingers are flexing on his shoulders. They might leave bruises. “You cannot be replaced so easily as you believe.”

“I don’t believe anyone on this ship is easily replaceable,” Jim shoots back.

While he might believe the words coming out of his mouth, they’re not what he’s really thinking. He’s thinking that death marks are not infallible. He’s thinking that occasionally they can be subverted through a myriad of stupid, impulsive actions. He’s thinking that he’d rather die making a noble but impulsive decision than to have Spock inevitably kill him, just to spare Spock the pain.

Spock’s lips have gone flat. He’s angry, and Jim doesn’t blame him. He’d be pissed if their positions were switched.

“Please,” Spock says, softening. “Exercise more caution concerning your life.”

Jim’s shoulders slump. “I will,” he promises.

This is already a dance for them, a fruitless repetition that makes them both feel better. Jim won’t stop being careless, and Spock won’t stop being upset about it, and neither of them will stop refusing to really fight.

So it goes.

  
  
  
  


“Ny. Ny. Ny.”

Nyota is doing her best to ignore him, even though she’s in his damn quarters, but Jim keeps poking her.

“What?” she finally sighs, setting her reading PADD down.

“I need you to promise me something.”

She narrows her eyes at him, properly suspicious. “I’m not promising anything until you tell me what it is.”

“If I die before I tell Spock—“

“Jim.”

“No, let me talk.” He sits up from his slump on the couch and winces as sore muscles twang. He has an unfortunate proclivity towards harming himself on away missions. “I need you to promise me this, please.”

Nyota’s eyes are tight with sorrow, but she keeps her mouth shut.

“If I die before I tell Spock about my death mark, I need you to tell him.”

“Why me?”

“The only other people who know are my asshole stepfather, who was there when the mark appeared, and Selek, who I told just after the destruction of Vulcan. You’re the only one who can do this.”

“I—“ She bites her lip, looking so genuinely distressed that for a moment Jim regrets starting their conversation. “Fine. I’ll do it. But I swear, Jim, if you take this as permission to just ignore your death mark and leave me with the burden of telling Spock, I will revive you just to kill you again.”

Jim nods; her threat is fair enough. “Got it.”

“Good.”

They’re both still and silent for several seconds before Nyota reaches out and grabs Jim’s hand tightly. Jim looks at her and her narrowed eyes and, for a moment, is so overwhelmingly proud that he gets to be so close to her that his heart constricts in his chest.

“I love you,” he says. “In a sisterly way, of course.”

She leans into his side, drops her head on his shoulder. “I love you too. In a brotherly way.”

  
  
  
  


It’s unexpected, but Jim can breathe a little easier with the knowledge that, should he die without telling Spock, someone will be able to provide Spock with an explanation.

Also unexpected is that, if possible, Jim gets even more reckless. He has insurance, now. It’s not all that purposeful, but it’s noticeable.

“How the hell did you get your ship when you’re so goddamn reckless?!” Nyota demands loudly. They’re huddled behind a rock that’s evaporating under an intense barrage of weaponry, and even though she’s screaming at him, she’s all but molded herself into his side.

“Dunno. Luck?” Jim doesn’t look at her, just fiddles with his communicator. If he could just get a connection, Scotty could beam them up.

“Luck? _Luck?!_ You call this luck?!”

“Well we’re not dead, are we?!”

“Not yet!”

“Oh, don’t be so melodramatic.”

All he has to do is switch this flip, connect these wires, turn that knob... Voila!

“Scotty, hey!”

“Cap’n!”

Jim doesn’t think he’s ever been so glad to hear Scotty in his entire life, and he can’t stop smiling when he says, “I need two to beam up, immediately.”

“What? I cannae hear ye over all the din.”

“Beam us up!” Nyota shouts directly into the communicator. A crumbling piece of their shelter tumbles down and misses her shoulder by millimeters.

“Come on, come on,” Jim mutters.

When they rematerialize on the transporter, it’s under Spock’s baleful gaze. Jim and Nyota shrink into each other in futile attempts to hide from him.

“Hey, babe,” Jim tries.

“Captain.”

Nyota makes a soft sound of sympathy and scooches away from him before standing and leaving.

“Your orders from Starfleet—“

“Are never to get myself shot at, Spock, but sometimes it happens in the process of trying to carry out my actual orders.” Spock looks a little taken aback by the fact that Jim was able to predict his words and respond accordingly, but is silent. Jim can’t help but feel guilty for snapping, and continues in a quieter voice. “This job is dangerous, Spock. There are only so many precautions I can take, and only so many that I’m willing to take.” Jim struggles to his feet and makes himself say what he knows will hurt. “I thought you knew this.”

And there it is. The flinch is so subtle that Jim half-believes he imagined it, but the slow, wounded blink is definitely real.

“I have been aware for some time of your inability to choose the safest route.”

“I’m capable of choosing the safest route when it‘s the safest route for everybody involved.”

“As captain, your safety is paramount.”

“Not so much that I’ll ask people to die for me without proving to them that I’m willing to take risks myself.”

For several tense moments, the two of them have a silent stand-off. Spock finally averts his eyes, although Jim can tell that he’s upset.

“Come on.” Jim keeps his tone soft and conciliatory when he speaks. “Let’s get back to the bridge.”

At the end of their shift, which is ruled by a tense sort of silence, Jim is hesitant to return to their quarters. When he does, after internally hemming and hawing for a good twenty minutes, Spock is waiting for him.

He’s not obvious about it, of course, but Jim can tell. His shoulders are too tense, and he’s perfectly casual in a way that no one ever really is. Jim’s stomach sinks like a stone.

“Hey.”

“James.” Jim winces; no good statement ever starts with his full first name. “Why... Why do you not show greater concern for your life?”

For half a moment Jim almost tells Spock the truth. Really, he does. But his lungs ache and the words he knows he needs to say can’t creep through the vice of his trachea.

“I can’t sit in that chair and ask people to sacrifice their lives for me without proving to them that I’d be willing to do the same,” he says instead. “Above all else, loyalty is what makes a starship run.”

“Yet your actions are at times excessive.” Spock’s eyes meet his and Jim feels sick at how concerned they are. “I do not want to lose you,” he confesses. “I cannot lose you.”

Jim offers a silent apology to Nyota, smiles at Spock, and says, “You won’t.”

Spock still looks discomfited. Jim plods over to Spock and sits down on the couch next to him, draping his legs over Spock’s lap. He smells like home and comfort, like the rich spices of a planet that no longer exists. Tonight, it turns Jim’s stomach.

“Relax,” he murmurs as he sets his head on Spock’s shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  
  
  
  


The Hirral are a friendly people who welcome them with open arms. To the great relief of the _Enterprise’s_ crew, the mission goes smoothly and within a week Jim has a signed treaty of alliance.

The global leaders of Hirral throw a massive party to celebrate the treaty and invite the entire _Enterprise_ crew. Some volunteer to man the ship, but a vast majority of the crew wind up planetside. Still, the cavernous hall in which the Hirral host the party make it feel far smaller than it actually is.

Jim cranes his neck to look at the ceiling. It’s ornately carved stone that looks like marble but is naturally a vivid, burned orange. The geologists are absolutely fascinated by it, and for once he understands.

“Ah, Captain!”

Jim jerks his gaze from the ceiling to the Hirr approaching him. It’s the Geir region’s Prime Minister, with whom Jim has been the friendliest over the past week. Zir fibrous filaments— similar to hair— are braided elaborately down zir back.

“Minister Ki’i, hello!”

“How are you enjoying the party this far?”

“Oh, it’s lovely. My geologists are certainly enthusiastic.”

Ze chuckles. “Such passion is greatly welcomed.”

It strikes Jim suddenly that he hasn’t seen Spock in a while. He glances around the room, searching for the familiar pointed ears, and smiles when he spies him talking with Nyota by a window.

“You love your partner dearly,” Ki’i comments. Zir face plates contort into what the Hirral consider a gesture of happiness.

“I do.”

“This is very good. It is often difficult for us to find such perfect mates. You are lucky that your bodies tell you where to go.”

Jim shrugs, ignoring how his death mark flares painfully. “Oh, I don’t know. It’s not all sunshine and rainbows.”

“You do not love your partner?” Ze asks. Ze sound appalled.

“No, no, I do. It’s just...” Jim sighs. “There are some people without names who never get a soulmate. And there are some who die within a short time of meeting their soulmate. And then there’s the death marks.”

“I believe I understand.” Ze pats Jim on the arm. “Go be with your love.”

“May fortune fall upon you,” Jim says.

Ze smiles and replies, “And upon you as well.”

So Jim migrates to where Spock and Nyota are, and they greet him warmly. Well, Spock greets him warmly. Nyota sounds equal parts furious, frightened, and relieved when she speaks.

“We were just talking about death marks, Jim,” she says.

_Ah._

“Ah.” 

“A curious Hirr engaged me in conversation earlier, eager to know whether or not death marks outweighed the benefit of soul marks.”

“What did you tell zir?”

“I said that the question was impossible to answer, due to the facts that not everyone has both marks and fear of death varies from person to person.”

“And what do you think, personally?” Jim asks.

“As I have no death mark, I cannot answer the question myself. What do you think?”

Jim’s blood runs cold in his veins for a heart-stopping motion. Here’s a perfect opportunity to tell Spock everything, and yet they’re surrounded by people. What if Spock makes a scene? He’d hate Jim doubly for telling him in public.

And what’s Jim supposed to say, anyways? _‘Oh, I’d say that it’s worth it. I mean, you’re going to kill me one day, but that just allows me to really savor every moment!’_ Like, come _on_. That would go over about as well as a political conversation at a family gathering.

“I think it’s worth it,” Nyota blurts. “I mean, death is inevitable. There’s no need to panic about it, especially when a little more information about your death allows you to know who will light up your entire life, however long it will last.”

“That’s a good point,” Jim says, desperate to redirect Spock’s attention. “We’re all going to die one day, so why not get your soulmate out of it?”

“Yet, as Humans with both soul marks and death marks, your opinions are biased. Those with a death mark but not a soul mark would likely disagree.”

“Overall, though, most people have soul marks. So if we’re looking at the bigger picture...”

“The bigger picture would likely align with you and Nyota, yes.”

“Oh, I think I see Scotty! Excuse me, boys.”

Nyota disappears into the crowd like magic, delivering a brutal pinch to the back of Jim’s bicep as she does. He stifles a noise of pain and looks at Spock, whose hair shimmers in Hirral’s greenish sunlight. Here’s another opportunity to speak, and Jim actually gets to the point of opening his mouth before his resolve melts like butter in summer.

“What is it?” Spock asks. He tips his head just so, and Jim’s heart splinters and expands all at once.

“Nothing.” He smiles. “I was just thinking about how much I love you.”

_I’m so sorry, Nyota._

Spock’s lips twitch. “I love you as well, ashaya,” he says, but his mouth soon falls into a barely-there contemplative frown as he scans the room.

“What is it?” Jim asks. He sets a gentle hand on Spock’s arm, which seems to ground him somewhat.

“There is a disturbance within me.” Spock pulls his eyes to Jim’s, the deep brown of the conflicted. “I cannot yet identify what it is.”

“Is it about the next mission? We’ve never done an inauguration before, and that could be pretty nerve-wracking. Especially since we’re representing the entire Federation.”

“It is not that.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll figure out eventually.” Jim slides his hand down to Spock’s, where he interlocks their pinkies. “In any case, I hear Altair VI is nice this time of year.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I Am Very Stressed And My Body Is Not Equipped To Handle It But Here Is The Next Chapter. (I Have Literally No Clue When The Next Chapter Will Be Posted Because I Haven’t Written It Yet, But I Will Post It Eventually.)
> 
> By Fall Out Boy


	7. Termination

It starts on a Tuesday.

‘It’ has no words until the definitive end of everything, but it nonetheless has a vaguely identifiable start.

Jim grabs Nyota by the arm when they pass in the hallway. He could confront her on the bridge, but it’s best that they have this conversation off-shift.

“Ny.”

Her eyes and tone are wary. “What is it?” She must be able to read him better than he thought, because he doesn’t even have to speak before she says, “Spock.”

“I think he knows.”

Nyota’s eyes do this funny little twitching thing, and then she’s stiff-arming him down the halls to her quarters. Jim can only be grateful that for the brief moments where he’s being bossed around by a lower-ranking officer, nobody is in the halls to see them.

“What do you mean, you think he knows?” Nyota demands as soon as the doors have slid shut behind them.

“I mean, I think he knows about my death mark but I’m not sure.”

“Thanks for clarifying nothing.” Her eyes are wide, and he can almost see his own panicked reflection in them. “What makes you think he knows? Has he said anything?”

“No, but he’s been... off. I don’t know how to describe it.”

She seems to deflate a little. Her eyes now shine with annoyance instead of worry. “You’re telling me that you’ve noticed Spock’s behavior is a teeny tiny bit unusual, and you jumped directly to ‘he figured out the biggest secret of my life?’ Are you shitting me?!”

“Oh, sue me for being just a little paranoid considering what, exactly, the secret is.”

Nyota sighs and rubs her hands over her face. “Alright. So what about his behavior is different?”

“He’s...” Jim huffs, unable to find the right words. Nyota’s small couch is right there and looks inviting, so he sinks down onto it. She follows. “He’s... uptight. He’s been holding himself like if he doesn’t keep himself tightly restrained, there’ll be consequences. You know he doesn’t ever get really angry, but he’s more persnickety than usual. His temper is shorter with everybody.” Jim shakes his head. “The changes are so minuscule I’m not even sure he knows they’re occurring, but I know him too well not to notice.”

“Have you tried talking to him about it?”

“He clams up tight and gets snappish, insists that nothing is wrong and I’m imagining things.”

“Hmm. What about M’Benga?”

“No, it’s not bad enough to send him down. And besides, I’m pretty sure that what he needs is more mental than physical.”

“What about his father?” Nyota’s suggestion is made hesitantly, like she knows how it’ll be received.

Jim jerks like he’s been physically struck and shakes his head vigorously. “No. Spock would kill me if Sarek didn’t do it first.”

“What reason could Sarek possibly have to kill you?”

“I’m the reason his wife is dead.”

“Oh, Jim.” Nyota gives Jim a soft, sympathetic look that Jim hates with his whole body. “You can’t blame yourself for her death.”

“Why not? I was the one holding her. I was the one who lost my goddamn grip on her.”

“What did her arm say?” Nyota demands. “Did it day your name? I don’t think it did.”

It didn’t, and Jim finds himself without a response.

“Listen, Jim. This paranoia isn’t good for you. With as much love as I can muster, I’m telling you to suck it up and tell Spock the truth.”

“When he’s acting so weird? Hell no. I’ll wait until he’s acting more like himself again.”

Nyota sighs and shakes her head. “Alright. Just remember your promise to me.”

“How could I forget?” Jim sighs. “I’ve got to get back to my quarters. You’re coming to poker night tomorrow, right?”

“You know it.” She pats his shoulder. “Now get out.”

“Aye aye, Captain.” The sarcasm earns him a loving— but far from gentle— kick to his leg as he leaves.

He can almost trick himself into believing he’s got all the time in the world to enjoy this camaraderie, but the name on his arm says differently.

* * *

Jim stirs from sleep in the middle of the night, and at first can’t figure out why he’s woken up. Then a dancing flame catches his attention through the divider between the bedroom and living areas. He sits up with care, trying not to disturb Spock, and winces as the blankets rustle around him.

“James?” The voice is dreamy, and strikes concern deep into Jim’s heart.

“I’m right here, baby.” He slips out from under the covers and rounds the divider to where Spock is trying to meditate.

His eyes are closed, his body folded elegantly into the traditional position, but he isn’t meditating. He’s too unsettled.

“I...”

“What’s wrong? You can tell me anything.” Jim settles down cross-legged across from Spock. The meditation flame flickers between them and casts soft shadows over the angles of Spock’s face.

“I cannot ascertain what is wrong with me, yet I am aware that I am not well.”

“Do you want to go see M’Benga?”

“No. I am not in need of a doctor.”

_ Yet. _

Jim frowns but says, “Alright, then. Why don’t you come back to bed?”

Spock lets Jim pull him upright, extinguish the meditation flame, and guide him towards their own secret haven. Jim can’t help but to be grateful that Spock allows this intimacy, this gentle guidance using a sensitive part of Vulcan anatomy. He never could’ve dreamed of being so privileged as a child.

“What’s bothering you?” Jim murmurs into Spock’s neck. He presses a soft kiss to the skin. “You can tell me anything, baby.” It’s never worked before, but under the private cover of night he night just have a chance at getting an answer.

“I have no words for it.” Spock rolls over so they’re facing each other. The space between them is minimal; they share the air that swirls in the millimeters between their lips. “May I...?”

“Go right ahead.” Jim takes Spock’s hand and guides it upwards.

Spock slides gently into Jim’s mind, like sliding into a pool. There are hardly any ripples that spread across the shifting surface of Jim’s mind, and he relaxes as they come together. He had once thought that melding would be uncomfortable, but having Spock’s presence in his mind has only ever been a wonder.

This time is different.

There is something wrong. Both of them can feel it, and Jim now understands why Spock— Spock, of all people— is at a loss for words to describe what he‘s going through.

Something itches and aches deep within Spock’s chest, resting between his lungs and against his spine. It’s both cold and warm, massive and minuscule. Whatever it is, it defies description, like some Lovecraftian monster made into physical sensation. Not only does it dwell within Spock’s chest, though, but lurks in the back of his mind, quicksilver and uncatchable. 

They slide easily out of the meld, but the sensations still linger within Jim. The fierce nagging not-quite-pain has latched itself to his own ribs, clings like too-warm caramel. He takes a shaking breath and cradles Spock’s face between his hands.

“Christ, Spock.” He traces his fingers over Spock’s face, the royal jutting of his brow ridge and the rounded end of his nose. “What is that?”

“I do not know.” Spock closes his eyes and accepts Jim’s gentle touches.

“We’ll figure it out,” Jim promises. “Together.”

“Do you not believe that the issue will solve itself?”

“It might,” Jim concedes, “but I don’t want to take that chance. Not with your health.”

“It is not yet significantly disturbing.” Spock is aiming to put Jim at ease, but fails.

“Yeah, yet.” Jim brushes the pads of his fingers delicately over Spock’s eyelids. “What if by the time it’s ‘significantly disturbing,’ it’s too late? What if it’s something that we need to catch early in order to stop?"

“James, do not worry.” Jim’s fingers have drifted to his ears, so Spock opens his eyes. They’re soft and rich, like loam. “I will be monitoring my condition.”

“And you’ll go to M’Benga if something is wrong?”

“Affirmative.”

“Alright, then.” Jim kisses Spock’s forehead. “I’ll drop it.”

“Your concern is appreciated.”

Spock tucks himself under Jim’s chin, curling inwards just enough so he seems smaller than he really is. Jim gladly allows pink blooms of affection entry into his lungs until he couldn’t dream of separating himself from Spock. There’s nothing else like having a Vulcan curl into you to make one feel special.

He lets the florets carry him off to sleep, and temporarily forgets the matter.

* * *

As captain, some of Jim’s duties include speaking with diplomats. He’s perfectly capable of it, of course, but that doesn’t mean he enjoys it. And he definitely doesn’t enjoy it when he has to talk to Sarek. He’s barely able to force himself to look Sarek in the eyes.

“We found it most suitable to ask your ship for promotion of our volunteer-driven rebuilding efforts,” Sarek is saying. “It is estimated that the presence of your famous ship and crew will draw 53.4% more volunteers than would be drawn by any other ship.”

“53 percent?” He can’t pretend to be particularly surprised, but the numbers are certainly higher than he would’ve anticipated. It’s still difficult for him to fully wrap his head around the fact that he, his crew, and his ship are famous.

“Point four.”

“That’s a lot,” Jim says lamely.

“The goal is to draw as many volunteers as possible.” Sarek raises an eyebrow. Sometimes Jim can almost forget they’re related until he sees Sarek doing shit like that in a manner so unique to Spock.

“Of course,” Jim says. “We’ll be glad to assist in any way we can. How have the rebuilding efforts been proceeding so far, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“They have been proceeding as quickly as possible without sacrificing the integrity of our new society, however we are unable, with our current population size, to rebuild with the necessary speed for maximum comfort. Our people sleep in large, communal tents while we build farms, hospitals, and schools. There are children who have never known a solid roof over their head.”

Jim frowns. “We’ll do our best to draw in as many volunteers as possible, I promise.”

“Your eager assistance is much appreciated.” Sarek dips his head in a pseudo-bow.

Sarek moves his arm as if to cut their connection and Jim blurts, “Ambassador, wait.”

Sarek looks expectantly at Jim, whose mouth has suddenly gone dry.

Is it likely that Sarek will have an answer for Jim about what’s wrong with Spock? Yes. But he knows that Spock will be betrayed if Jim asks Sarek for help, and he can’t stomach Spock’s quiet, wounded disapproval. He asks Sarek with Spock’s permission, or not at all.

“Selek,” he says instead. “How is he?”

“Selek is well. He is working with T’Loa to further our agricultural efforts.”

“Good, that’s good.”

There is stiff, awkward silence for several moments before Sarek says, “Is that all?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“Then I bid you good fortune until we meet again.”

Although Jim didn’t say anything to betray Spock, he still feels horribly guilty. “You as well, Ambassador.”

* * *

Spock’s face is between Jim’s hands, and his eyes are closed, and he’s so devastatingly beautiful that Jim physically cannot do anything but kiss him again. They’re still out of breath, just having broken apart, but Jim can’t stand to spend even seconds not kissing him.

They’re laying on their sides in their bed. One of Spock’s hands is tucked between Jim’s neck and the pillow, and the other is fisted in Jim’s shirt down by the hem. His cheeks are flushed a bright, beautiful green that Jim delights in drawing from his recalcitrant Vulcan blood vessels.

Jim tangles their feet— still socked, although he doesn’t know why because their quarters are altogether too hot for socks in the bed— as he yanks Spock into another kiss. There’s fire in his veins, throbbing. He knows Spock can feel it through the hands Jim has on his face, a couple of fingers lighting delicately over psi-points.

“You are still injured from Uuig II,” Spock breaks apart to say, although it’s more of a gasp.

“I know.” Jim kisses him again, hard. “That’s why we’re not having sex.”

“This is still strenuous activity,” Spock protests. Jim slides his hands down from Spock’s face. One hand parks itself on Spock’s chest and twists in the fabric over one beautiful pec, and the other keeps going until it finds a firm handful of rear end.

“We’re laying down, it’s fine.” He smirks and adds, “If you’re so concerned, you can ride me. All I have to do is lay there and watch you work away.”

Spock trembles, although Jim knows he’s not satisfied with the offered excuses, and presses into the searing kisses. He’s given up. It’s taken surprisingly less work than normal, but Jim’s not going to complain if it means he get to kiss Spock some more.

Something sets off a very, very quiet alarm in the very, very back of Jim’s mind when Spock pushes Jim so he’s flat on his back before swinging to straddle him. Normally when Jim is still injured from some sort of mishap, whether it be engineering-related or the results of an away mission gone wrong, Spock is overly cautious. When given ranges of recovery, he always sticks to the outer edges, even when Jim pushes and prods. The ‘riding doesn’t require anything of me but to lie down’ tactic almost never works, and yet here they are.

With their positions changed, Jim can now grab the hem of Spock’s shirts and lift them up. Spock almost rips them off, then tosses them haphazardly behind him. Jim is delighted by the new skin exposed for him to run his hands over, but Spock seems more concerned with smothering Jim in molten kisses. Each one burns like a brand, not that Jim minds, and he moans happily when Spock begins to roll their hips together.

Jim’s normally a talker in bed. He saturates the air with sweet nothings and lewd praises, but he doesn’t have the air to breathe tonight, much less talk. His head has gone fuzzy under relentless lust. He’s a little worried Spock’s forgotten that Humans need more oxygen than Vulcans.

The grip Spock has on his face is tight, though, like he’s worried Jim will stop kissing him if not kept in place. But Jim’s lungs begin to burn, and the pleasure becomes a little less pleasureful and just a tad like panic.

He reaches up with one hand, which had been settled on Spock’s waist, to thump on his upper arm. Spock growls in response, like a dog.

It does all sorts of interesting things to Jim’s stomach, but Spock’s pulled away just enough for Jim to gasp, “Can’t breathe.” Spock stills the rocking of his hips and pulls his face a little further away. His hands relax their grip on Jim’s face enough for him to turn his head to the side and pant desperately, although the air is too hot to provide much relief. “Sorry, honey. Didn’t mean to ruin the mood.”

“You have not.” Spock buries his face in Jim’s neck to layer it with kisses, but Jim almost flinches away.

“Wait,” he says. The alarms are much louder, now.

Jim is taking careful stock of his body: the beads of sweat that have sprung up across his face, the dampness of sweat behind his knees and in the crease of his thighs, the cold flashes that are sweeping over him as he overheats, the dull headache building behind his eyes.

Spock is searing hot, unnaturally so.

“Spock,” he says. “You’re so hot.”

“Thank you."

“No, no.” He sits up sharply and Spock, now sitting in his lap, is visibly frustrated. The alarms only blare louder. “Spock, I...” He raises his hand to lay it across Spock’s forehead and has to jerk his hand away almost immediately from the sheer heat Spock’s giving off. “I think you’re sick. You’re burning up.”

Spock doesn’t move from Jim’s lap, but stares intently at the wall. Jim can almost see the gears turning in his head. They’re slower than usual, but must still work well enough, because after several seconds Spock’s eyes widen to an almost comical degree.

“Spock?”

“This cannot be.”

“Spock, honey, what’s wrong.”

When their eyes meet, Spock’s are dark and horrified. “It is the Pon Farr.

“Pon Farr?” Jim racks his brain for a definition. He knows he’s been told this. “That’s... mating?”

“Indeed.”

“Okay. What does this mean?”

“I must return to New Vulcan at once, where T’Pring will meet me. My expectation is that we will mate and marry.”

“Marry?” Jim frowns. “But what about me?”

“It is too late now for us to marry, Jim. My blood draws me to New Vulcan and to T’Pring. Afterwards, T’Pring will almost certainly have no issues with severing our marriage bond. Once T’Pring and I have divorced, we will be free to marry and you will be able to aid me with my next Pon Farr.”

“Alright.” Jim can’t help but to be upset that he won’t be the one helping Spock through this, but it’s his own fault for not marrying Spock sooner. “Wait, what does ‘at once’ mean?”

“The matter is urgent. I must reach New Vulcan and T’Pring within...” Spock seems to consider something. What it is that he’s considering, Jim doesn’t know. “A week.”

“And what if we can’t get you there within the week? We’ve got our mission to Altair VI, and I don’t know if we’ll be able to complete it and get to New Vulcan within a week.”

He doesn’t remember much about Pon Far, partially because Spock didn’t tell him much. He knows it’s deeply embarrassing for the whole Vulcan race, and that it’s a mating thing, but that’s about it. He didn’t remember anything about a time frame. Does it burn itself out in a week? Will it impact his ability to ‘mate’ in the future?

“I will die, Jim.”

“Oh.”

* * *

“Hey, babe.” Jim drops his tray on the table that has slowly become ‘theirs’ over time. “Guess which hot soulmate of yours got the admiralty to redirect us to New Vulcan and send another ship to Altair VI?”

“You are my only soulmate.” Spock pokes at his plomeek soup with a spoon. “But thank you.”

“Starting our sentences with conjunctions?” Jim teases to mask his worry. “How illogical, Mister Spock.”

Spock just peers at him, and Jim continues to smile like the swollen brown under-eye bags don’t break his heart. It’s only been a day since Spock realized that he was entering Pon Farr, but it appears that Pon Farr progresses rapidly once it has started.

“Do you need to leave?” Jim asks quietly as he settles into his seat. “We can take dinner in our room.”

“No.” Spock shakes his head. “No, I am still capable of taking my meal amongst the crew.”

They fall into a silence colored by Jim’s concern. Jim is halfway through a large mouthful of burger when Spock speaks.

“What did you tell the admiralty? I know they would not agree to redirect the Enterprise without significant persuasion.”

“I told them that you were extremely ill and needed to be cured on New Vulcan within the week to prevent your untimely demise. No specifics.”

“And what is our punishment?”

Another conjunction. Jim holds back a wince of concern.

“Milk runs for the foreseeable future, but—“ He shrugs. “—we could use some missions that are unlikely to go horribly wrong.”

“Thank you.” Spock’s voice is barely audible over the general hubbub of the mess hall. “I must ask, though, why you redirected the entire ship instead of assigning me sick leave."

“Our next mission was going to be to New Vulcan anyways. Essentially, we’re being allowed to skip on Altair VI in exchange for an extended publicity mission on New Vulcan, except instead of helping us when we get there, you’ll go... to the doctor’s.”

“Indeed.”

“How are you feeling, Spock?” Jim asks after a pause, when he can’t stand to keep the words inside. “Really. No ‘fine’ bullshit.”

“I am...” Spock stares at his plomeek soup, still barely touched. “Tired. However, I am still functional.”

“Don’t push yourself farther than you think you can go, alright?”

“I will not.”

Suspicious, Jim raises his eyebrows and stays silent until Spock looks up at him.

“Truly, I will not,” Spock insists.

“Alright, then.” Jim holds out two fingers, and feels love spark across their connection when Spock presses their fingers together.

They’ll be fine, Jim tells himself. Everything will be fine.

* * *

The air on New Vulcan is very hot and very dry. Jim hadn’t expected anything else, really, so he’s not too disappointed. It’s windy up on the plateau they’ve beamed down to, but the gusts are too hot to bring any relief.

Sarek stands alone before them. About a hundred yards behind him, the plateau ends abruptly and drops off. Bare red sand stretches all the way to the distant horizon. Jim doesn’t know what the hell they're doing here; he can’t see any sign of life or civilization.

“Father,” Spock rasps. He’s only gotten worse since he realized what was going on, and is almost too weak to stand now. One of his arms is slung over Jim’s shoulders for support.

“Son.” Sarek’s face doesn’t change when he looks to Jim, which is almost worse than an expression of shock or even distaste. “May I ask why your captain is here?”

“We bear each other’s names,” Spock says.

“He asked me to be here,” Jim adds. “I know everything I need to know.”

Sarek finally addresses Jim. “I can only hope that you are correct. Follow me.”

He turns and strides away from them with long, easy steps. Jim and Spock lean heavily on each other as they struggle after him. In the excessive heat and oxygen-thin atmosphere, Jim is struggling to stand on his own, much less to support Spock as well. He can only hope that the walk isn’t far.

They struggle towards the steep drop, and Jim grows increasingly worried until he realizes that the steep drop is not just a steep drop. The final few feet slide gently downwards alongside the cliff. It’s a natural path to the top of the plateau, although it looks nearly manufactured. They stagger down after Sarek, almost toppling over at several points when Spock’s knees give out beneath him.

“Come on, honey,” Jim murmurs. “Just a little farther.”

The wind must carry his voice, because Sarek turns his head as Jim speaks. Something cold sparks deep in Jim’s stomach; Sarek is scary as all fuck. He knows he can only ever dream of gaining Sarek’s approval, and that’s what makes him so terrifying.

Another hundred yards down the trail is a cave entrance. By the time they make it there, Jim feels like he’s just jumped into a pool. There’s sweat running down his back, dripping from his chin. He can barely keep a hold on Spock, who looks to be half-unconscious.

The cave is cooler by several degrees, but even then Jim is worried about collapsing from heat exhaustion. It’s an oddly perfect cave, but just imperfect enough for JIm to know that it’s a natural formation. Lit torches illuminate the cave, but the flickering shadows give the entire event a more ominous feeling. Almost directly across from the entrance that Sarek leads them through is another tunnel, but a massive ring of stones separates the two sides of the cave.

The space between the stone ring and the wall is greater off to their right. In the space sits a gong, of all things, large enough for Jim to lay spread-eagle on.

“Captain,” Sarek says. "You must let go of my son.”

Jim doesn’t outright say no, but he does clutch Spock tighter.

“K’diwa,” Spock says after a moment. His voice is raspy. “I must do what comes next on my own.”

Jim bites his lip, but slowly lets go of Spock. It takes all of his willpower to hold back when Spock sways, but he manages it. On unsteady feet, Spock makes his way over to the gong, which he strikes. The sound reverberates throughout the cave, settling in the back of Jim’s jaw and deep in his stomach.

“The marriage party approaches,” Sarek says.

Jim can’t hear anything other than his racing pulse, but soon enough the jingling of bells makes its way to his ears. With building trepidation, Jim waits for the marriage party to arrive. Part of him feels like he might die berore they make it to the cave where Spock, Jim, and Sarek are waiting, but he doesn’t.

The first two members of the procession enter with geometric, bell-laden contraptions that they shake about. Their outfits are gaudy, silver things that Jim can’t help but to be glad are hidden by shadow. Two more silver-wearing Vulcans follow, bearing a chair between them like that of old royalty. Sat in the chair, her face placid and her hair styled into a perfectly regal updo, is none other than T’Pau. Jim feels his mouth go drier than it had already been. He can’t even imagine what he must look like to her right now, a disheveled excuse for a captain. Behind T’Pau’s seat walks one more person, and after her the procession is a blur; the woman is beyond stunning. Her dress-- also silver-- is ethereal and severe. Her hair is completely alien, gravity-defying in its splendor.

T’Pring.

The procession makes their way to the side of the cave opposite Spock and the gong. Once T’Pau’s chair has been set down, Spock picks up his feet with obvious effort and steps through the stone circle to kneel at T’Pau’s feet. She brushes her fingers against his psi points, dips shallowly into his mind.

Jim feels like he’s intruding on something intensely private. He pinches his hands tightly behind his back to keep from squirming in discomfort. He spares a glance at Sarek, who looks constipated.

“Spock.” T’Pau speaks with a heavy Vulcan accent upon the conclusion of their meld, and although her voice is completely impassive, it’s somehow obvious that she’s extremely disgruntled. “Are our ceremonies for outworlders?”

“He is not an outworlder,” Spock says, still kneeling. One of his hands is pressed to the cave’s floor for balance. “He is the bearer of my name. I am permitted this.”

T’Pau raises her eyes to look right into Jim’s. He feels an icy shiver run down his back. “How does thee pledge his behavior?” she demands, although not of Jim.

“With my life, T’Pau,” Spock rumbles softly. It’s almost enough to make Jim smile.

“What he is about to see comes down from the time of the beginning. This is the Vulcan heart. This is the Vulcan soul. This is our way. Kah-if-farr.”

Spock stands and makes his way on unsteady feet back to the gong. It hurts Jim just to watch, but he can’t just look away. He bites his lip and clasps his hands even tighter so that he can’t reach out to him.

Spock draws back the mallet to strike the gong a second time when T’Pring steps forward and declares, “Kal-if-fee!”

The room falls still for half of a heartbeat. Spock’s arm falls slowly, slowly to a resting position. Jim glances at Sarek. It’s hard to tell between the firelight and the shadows, but Sarek looks pale. “What is it?” Jim murmurs. Something not unlike panic is thrashing about in his chest. “What’s going on?”

T’Pau speaks before Sarek, her voice steady. “She chooses the challenge.”

“What’s the challenge?” Jim asks. His heart is beating far too fast.

“He will have to fight for her in order to claim her as his wife,” Sarek says. “She may choose a champion to fight for her, or she may fight herself. It is her right.”

“But--” Jim stammers. “But--”  _ But he doesn’t want her. _ “Spock--”

“Do not try to speak to him,” T’Pau advises, and if she wasn’t upset with him before, she certainly is now. “He is deep in the plak tow, the blood fever. He will not speak with thee again until he has passed through what is to come. Thee may depart now if thee so wishes.”

As if Jim would give her the satisfaction. As if he’d leave Spock.

His soul marks hurt, faintly.

“I’m staying.”

T’Pau turns her attention back to T’Pring. “Thee are prepared to become the property of the victor?”

“I am prepared.”

“T’Pring, thee will choose thy champion.”

Jim surveys her marriage party, feeling ill. Almost all of them look like they could beat Spock. If only there was something he could do to stop this nonsense.

“As it was in the dawn of our days, as it is today, as it will be for all tomorrows, I make my choice. This one.”

She’s pointing at him.

She’s… She’s pointing at him?

Jim looks around, wide-eyed, as if there could be any other subject of T’Pring’s accusing finger. There’s nobody but Sarek, standing too far away for him to have mistaken her aim.

“Captain Kirk,” T’Pau begins. Oh, stars above, T’Pring pointed at him. “T’Pring is within her rights, but our laws and customs do not bind thee. Thee are free to decline with no harm upon thyself.”

“T’Pau,” Spock croaks. The single word sounds like it takes enormous effort.

“Thee speaks?”

Jim looks at Spock and knows his face is a war of emotions. Spock looks awful, desperate, harrowed. Jim wants nothing more than to whisk Spock away from all this madness and soothe him.

“James does not understand.”

“The choice has been made.” T’Pau’s tone has shifted from surprised to dismissive, although Jim knows that to any other Human it would all sound like the same monotone. “It is up to him now.”

“He does not know,” Spock pleads. “I will do what I must, but not with him! His blood does not burn.”

“Are thee Human or are thee Vulcan?” T’Pau asks. Her tone is scathing, and Jim has to bite down cruelly on his tongue to remain quiet.

His heart is splintering in his chest. Speech is clearly agony, so difficult as to surprise T’Pau, and yet Spock speaks to protect Jim. His hands physically ache with the desire to draw Spock gently away from this torment.

“I burn, T’Pau.” Spock’s voice is rough, sandpaper and gravel. “I burn, T’Pau. My eyes are flame. My heart is flame. Thee has the power, T’Pau. In the name of my fathers, forbid. Forbid! T’Pau, I plead with thee! I beg!”

“Thee has prided thyself on thy Vulcan heritage. It is decided.”

“If…” Jim clears his throat and speaks again. “If I decline, what happens to Spock?”

“Another champion will be decided.”

Jim looks to Spock, who isn’t looking back. He’s staring at T’Pau, still, his face stuck in a heartbroken mask. Jim looks to T’Pau as well, who sits in expectation of an answer.

He thinks through what he knows. One of them will have to win, and while Spock ordinarily wins their sparring matches, he’s weaker than even Jim here. Besides, if Jim finds himself in trouble, he can probably just quit. Then Spock will win and his honor will be satisfied. And how could he possibly back out in front of T’Pau, who is all of New Vulcan in one woman?

“I accept the challenge.”

Jim watches something swell up inside of Spock’s eyes and bury him. The sweet Spock, the soft Spock, the Spock who only moments before had plead for Jim to be excused from this sideways marriage ceremony-- that Spock is gone. The one who remains in his place is feral.

When T’Pau speaks, it deeply jarrs Jim. “Here begins the act of combat for possession of the woman, T’Pring. As it was at the time of the beginning, so it is now. Bring forth the lirpa.”

Two of the marriage party members step towards Jim and Spock. Each holds a lirpa, half-moon blades set on wooden staffs with bulbous, counterweighted ends. Jim recognizes them, but has never seen a real one before. He’s never held one, either, but now one is being dropped into his hands. It’s heavier than he thought it would be, and he almost drops it. The party member wastes no time in ushering him into the stone circle.

“If both survive the lirpa, combat will continue to the ahn woon.”

Jim drops the blunted end of the lirpa to the ground, where a cloud or red dust puffs up around it. “Wait, what?” he asks, aghast. “What do you mean, if both survive?”

“This combat is to the death,” Sarek states. He sounds resigned.

Before Jim can open his mouth to protest that he hadn’t known it was to the death, Spock is lunging at him. Still in a state of shock, Jim only steps backwards. After all, it’s not like Spock would actually hurt him.

Right?

Wrong. A line of fire trails across Jim’s upper chest as the bladed end of the lirpa tears his shirt open. He gasps as he feels blood seep from the cut to run down his chest in sticky rivulets. Moving like a viper-- where is the Spock who, just moments ago, could hardly stand under his own power?-- Spock swings the lirpa around and clubs Jim soundly in the head with the blunted bottom of it.

Jim barely keeps his grip on the lirpa as he collapses, stars bursting behind throughout his vision. The sand of the arena is… so red. It’ll be even redder should Spock spill his blood across it. Fuck, his head hurts and he’s not even thinking about the fight he’s currently engaged in. That’s gotta be a concussion.

A faint whistling sound is all the warning Jim has. He rolls out of the way just in time to see the lirpa’s blade bury itself in the sand where his head had been only a moment prior. The little saliva that had been in Jim’s mouth dries abruptly.

He staggers to his feet and away from Spock, gasping for air and holding the lirpa out in front of him like it could possibly act as a shield. Spock stares at him from the other side of the arena. In sync, they step back and forth, always keeping the whole arena between them.

How is he going to get them out of this one? There’s no such thing as a no-win scenario, but this is looking worse than the Kobayashi Maru. He can’t fudge the programming because this isn’t real. There’s nothing but him and a lirpa and a soulmate who’s apparently lost his damn mind.

He does his best to suck in enough air for his poor human lungs, and lets it out with a plea of “Spock.”

Spock’s eyes are space-dark and he growls-- really growls, like an animal-- when Jim speaks.

“Spock,” he tries again, “this isn’t you.”

Apparently fed up with the whole pacing thing, Spock sprints directly towards Jim with little finesse. Jim manages to disarm Spock, sending the lirpa twirling from his hands, but in doing so places himself within inches of Spock. Lirpa or no, Jim can’t do much when Spock grabs him from behind and hurls him over his head like a bride with her bouquet.

Jim’s vision temporarily blacks out when he hits the ground, and he gasps like a fish when all the air is driven from his lungs by the impact. When he comes back to himself, Spock has picked up a lirpa and is swinging it downwards again with bulging arm muscles. Jim shifts his head just enough to not die, although it takes a not-insignificant amount of skin off of his ear, and reaches up to grip the staff of the lirpa. He uses the lirpa as an anchor to bring his legs up and kick Spock directly in the groin.

While Spock snarls and takes half a moment to recover, Jim turns and scrambles away on his hands and knees, too lethargic to run. He’s not sure whether it’s the lack of oxygen or the concussion that he most certainly has by now. Maybe it’s both.

He stumbles to his feet, although his head throbs and causes him to sway. Unfortunately, the hit to the family jewels has enraged Spock. He opens his mouth and releases a guttural cry.

“Stop,” T’Pau orders.

Spock, who had taken a menacing step forward, freezes. His entire body trembles like the effort to restrain himself is physically painful. Jim sinks to his knees, gasping. His entire body aches, from his ear to the ribs that feel cracked.

Party members step into the arena. One picks up the discarded lirpa. The other pries the second lirpa from Spock’s hands. Jim can’t help the way his heart flutters. Is it over? Has T’Pau taken pity on him?

No.

“The ahn woon,” she announces.

New weapons are tossed to them. They’re long strips of heavy fabric, with a weighted sphere and tassels on each end. Spock’s lands at his feet, but Jim’s wraps itself around his left forearm like they’re playing some twisted game of ladder toss. He pulls the ahn woon off of his arm, but his attention has strayed from the weapon to what’s hidden under his shirt.

With a shaking hand, Jim pushes up his sleeve. His tattoo is revealed, a dark swath that obscures nearly his whole forearm. But under it, Jim knows, is a five-letter name that he can see as clear as day if he closes his eyes.

Didn’t he always know that it would come to this?

He struggles to his feet, ahn woon clutched in his right hand, and looks at Spock.

_ It's going to have to be an accident _ , he remembers thinking the minute he first met Spock.  _ It's going to be unintentional. _

He wasn’t too far off. It’s almost funny.

Spock begins his approach with long, purposeful, predatory steps.

Jim drops the ahn woon. His very soul aches, and it’s worse than anything he’s ever felt before.

“I love you,” he tells Spock.

There’s nothing in Spock’s eyes but emptiness when he lashes out with the ahn woon and yanks Jim’s feet out from under him. The ahn woon is transformed into a flail, and Jim grunts as the weighted balls make impact but doesn’t fight back. One or two of the blows definitely crack ribs, if he’d had any doubt before.

“I love you,” he says as Spock kneels and wraps the ahn woon tightly around his neck.

He’s already oxygen-deprived. It won’t take long for Spock to finish him off. Already his lungs feel scorched by fire, his vision grays and grows blurry at the edges. Spock’s face above him is distorted by unbidden tears.  He thinks deliriously of  _ Othello _ . How astute he’d been as a child, how foolishly hopeful that it would end any other way but this. Different and the same, they are, but Desdemona did not willingly give her throat to her husband’s hands. Had she traced his face, as Jim is doing with trembling hands? (The soft end of his nose, the noble curve of his cheekbones, the sweet curve of his ears, the trembling plushness of his lips). No, no; she’d been stifled. Smothered with a pillow. She had not had the luxury of seeing Othello’s eyes above her, of seeing his face as she sunk into oblivion.

He tries to speak again but no words come out. There’s no sound at all but the clicking of his throat and the heavy, slowing drumbeat of his pulse.

His hands are  _ so heavy _ .

He shifts his trembling fingers to Spock’s psi points, pushes with all the might he has left. His vision is tunneling until all he can see are Spock’s eyes, so bright and so beautiful, like all the stars. With those eyes in mind, with them as an anchor to consciousness, Jim does his best to shove all the love he can into Spock’s mind. With every passing moment he’s being dragged further and further away from Spock, and so he throws all that he can and all that he is to Spock and hopes that some of it will be received.

Spock will be so lonely without Jim. Maybe this’ll help.

_ I love you, _ he thinks.

His ears are ringing. His lungs are screaming. All of his atoms are resisting, but Jim is calmer than he’s ever been.

_ I love you. _

_ I love you. _

_ I love-- _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I acutely aware of how long it's been since I posted the last chapter? Yes. Am I sorry? Also yes.
> 
> (Am I sorry for the way that this chapter ended? No. This was the end goal.)
> 
> In any case, the epilogue should be up before too long, and then we're done! Fair warning, I've fallen into a very deep Witcher pit since February and my next fic will likely be for The Witcher and not Star Trek. If you like both, good for you! If you don't like The Witcher, sorry. If you haven't watched The Witcher, please do.


	8. And In The Aftermath

Sarek leads Nyota to Spock’s room in silence. Nyota wouldn’t consider it “Spock’s room,’” but that was what Sarek called it. She thinks it’s so that he doesn’t have to address what it really is, so he doesn’t have to say “the room in which my son is dying.” It doesn’t take anyone particularly knowledgeable about Vulcans to understand that aversion; for all their haughtiness, there are some things that are universal.

Like grief.

Sarek stops outside the door, nods towards it as if permitting her entry. He looks ancient.

“I grieve with thee,” she whispers to him.

“The time for my grief is not yet here,” Sarek defers. “It is I who grieves with thee.”

Nyota looks away from him, ducks her head down to stare at the tips of her boots. Hot tears prick the back of her eyes and stop up her throat.

“Thank you,” she whispers hoarsely.

They haven’t had a funeral yet. For now, Jim’s body rests in the _Enterprise’s_ morgue. She hasn’t seen it, but she’s heard all about his injuries and cause of death. Half an ear sheared clean off, cracked ribs, a thin and perfectly linear cut across his chest, various spherical bruises all over his torso, bruises on the back of his head signifying a likely concussion, and bruising around his neck. Cause of death: asphyxiation.

She’s sure his body will look fine at the funeral. Better than fine; he’s Captain Kirk, the man who defeated Nero, the youngest captain in Starfleet history. His body will be treated like that of the kings of old.

Nyota’s not sure she’ll be able to look at it when the funeral finally happens.

Spock’s room is quiet when she steps inside, and so still that she almost thinks he’s not even there. The lights are off, and the sheer blinds are closed but light shines faintly through them. It’s enough to see by even though the sun is setting. The little bed, directly under the high window, is occupied by a blanket-covered lump.

She steps closer. Her footsteps are soft, but in the absolute silence of Spock’s room she feels like she’s stomping.

“Spock,” she whispers.

The lump on the bed is breathing, faintly. Nyota sits down next to it, careful to keep space between them. She doesn’t know if touch would be appreciated, and she highly doubts it.

“Spock? Come on, talk to me. Please.”

There’s no movement at all, other than the rhythmic rising and falling of his chest. He could be asleep for all she knows, but she can tell that he isn’t. There’s no outward signs of his consciousness, she just… knows, somehow.

“I have something to tell you.” She can barely keep her voice steady. “It’s from Jim.”

Movement at last. Achingly slow, fingers emerge from the top of the blankets and tug it downwards. She stifles a noise, of what sort she’s not certain. Spock’s face is horrifyingly skinny, drawn and pale with great brown bags under his eyes. He looks like death, and she supposes she’s not far off.

“Jim?” he whispers.

“He made me promise a long time ago that if he-- if he didn’t get to tell you this, that I would.”

“Tell me…?”

“He knew. The whole time, he knew, and he loved you anyways. He _chose_ to love you anyways.” She closes her eyes tightly, unable to look at Spock’s face as she speaks. “He didn’t regret a single moment. He… He tried so hard to tell you, but he couldn’t find a way. Even still, he wanted you to know, whether it be from his mouth or another’s.”

“He--?”

There’s a gentle sort of choking noise. She opens her teary eyes to look at Spock’s sickly face, streaked with tear tracks. She hadn’t even known he was capable of crying; he may have been half-Human, but biologically he was almost fully Vulcan.

“He loved you, Spock.” Her voice finally breaks, and she fights the hitching of her breath to speak again “He loved you _so much.”_

Spock gasps, a shivery sound, and begins to cry in earnest. Nyota can't help but to cry with him, although she presses her hand gently over her mouth to try and stifle the sound.

“I know he did,” Spock sobs. “I know. As I killed him, as I _strangled the life from him_ , his only thoughts were of how much he loved me.”

Nyota stays as still as she can and lets cold oversensitivity sweep across her skin. This is unprecedented territory, something forbidden. She should not be seeing this and her body knows it.

“Nyota, my _katra_ cannot take the strain.” Spock manages to say. His voice is mangled, bowing and breaking under the unimaginable weight of his grief. “I have killed half of myself. I am bleeding out into empty space.”

She can’t do anything but whisper his name, so horrified is she by what lays before her. Gone is the Commander, gone is the Vulcan. All that he is now is a wounded shell.

Spock’s sobs ease into soft snuffling noises. His eyes are closed. He’s asleep, or perhaps unconscious. She supposes it doesn’t much matter now. He’s only inches from death; Sarek told her that significant enough strain on the mind can kill a Vulcan, and if accidentally murdering your own soulmate isn’t straining enough for that then she doesn’t know what is.

It takes a while before she can collect herself enough to stand. There are tacky streaks on her face, and she knows that her eyes are bright red. Oh, well. It’s not like Sarek would expect anything else from a Human.

He’s outside of Spock’s room, waiting for her. She’s too drained to be shocked.

“Is there truly nothing we can do for him?” she can’t help but to whisper.

Sarek closes his eyes and slowly, slowly shakes his head. He seems unfathomably old in the moment. Nyota exhales, shaky, and wipes again at her eyes.

“I grieve with thee,” she says again, and again is denied.

“My son—“ His tone is sharp but he cuts himself off and continues with a much softer voice, as if Spock were a toddler he was trying not to wake. “My son is not dead yet.”

She thinks she should probably leave, now. Her message has been delivered, and Sarek is clearly distraught over the state of his son. When they return to the living room, so small and austere even with his privileged position in society, Nyota takes a long look at the door.

“Would you like tea?” Sarek offers.

She can hardly say no, can she? He’s surely far more fragile than even she is, and if she were in his shoes she’d be crushed by a rejection.

“I would love some,” she says, and offers him a slim smile.

Sarek’s kitchen is small too. On New Vulcan, even the best houses are exceedingly simple according to previous standards. The kitchen is humble, barely large enough to host a small dining table. Nyota settles awkwardly into a chair as Sarek turns on a kettle. There’s no replicator.

“Does the crew know what has transpired?” Sarek asks. He sits down across from her and grips his forearms, like he’s restraining himself in some way.

“They know that Spock and Jim beamed down to the surface for a pre-disembarkment meeting. Something went horribly wrong.” She takes a long, deep breath that trembles when she pulls it inwards, as if resisting capture. “Jim didn’t make it, and Spock was badly wounded but is being taken care of here on New Vulcan without visitors.”

“He will not survive the night.” The words seem to slip from Sarek’s mouth without first passing through any sort of filter. She watches his face twitch into something that looks like shock before smoothing over again. Very likely, he didn't mean to divulge such details.

“You’re certain?”

“Yes. A mind healer came earlier this afternoon to see him and assess his state. She informed me that while his body is uninjured, his mind is shattered beyond repair. His _katra_ is weakening with every moment, and before morning it will be too weak to sustain life.”

A soft noise makes its way through Nyota’s slack lips, something equally pained and horrified.

Sarek doesn’t look at her. He stares determinedly at a point on the table between them, his hands brutally tight where they clutch his arms. She can see the skin under his fingers whitening from the force. He doesn’t stop talking. “James’ death did not simply dissolve the bond between their souls, but ripped it out from the source and took a portion of Spock’s mind with it. Quite literally, he is incomplete. Vulcan minds are contained; they require, in the crudest sense, walls. Spock’s walls have been destroyed and his very essence is, essentially, dissolving. The most apt comparison would be bleeding out.”

“There’s nothing anyone can do?”

“It is beyond even the most skilled telepaths to search through the mind of a dead man; he has no mind to be searched. James has taken the missing parts of Spock’s mind with him.”

Sarek doesn’t sound angry, really, but Nyota feels a desperation to defend Jim bubble up within her anyways, like vomiting champagne. She can’t let Sarek hate Jim, she can’t. It’s her duty as his pseudo-sister to sing his praises, and as smug as he’d be about it she’s taking her job seriously.

“He didn’t mean to,” she blurts.

Sarek looks directly at her, clearly startled by her outburst. The bags under his eyes nearly match Spock’s. Nyota carries on anyway.

“I’ve known Jim for years. He loved Spock with everything in him, so much that he didn’t even care that Spock was going to kill him. He would never--” She pauses to suck in a deep breath and blink away more of those damn tears. “He would never do anything to hurt Spock. He would die a thousand deaths before he would do anything like this to Spock.”

For several seconds afterwards-- for short moments that stretch out into agonizing eons-- the two of them sit without moving. Nyota’s palms are pressed flat to the table, and her chest heaves with hysterical breaths. Sarek is severe and statuesque.

“I do not blame James for my son’s condition,” Sarek eventually whispers. “I was there. I stood by James as he stepped into the arena. I watched Spock…” He looks genuinely regretful. “I watched Spock rob James of his life. In fact, I was the one to carry James’ body back to the beaming site.”

Nyota slumps forward like a puppet whose strings have been cut. She refuses to cry again, she really does; she’s cried more over the past two days than she has over the course of her entire life. Yet tears still prick behind her eyes. How does she still have tears to cry?

She could’ve sworn she used them all up when she had to call Leonard and tell him and Gaila that Jim was dead. That he’d finally run out of luck and fallen victim to the hands of his own soulmate. At first, they’d been appalled. They hadn’t understood how it was possible for Jim to have the same name on his chest and arm. Then they’d been pissed at Jim for not trying to stay away from Spock, but that had only lasted for a minute before they were furious with Spock. At least, Leonard had been furious with Spock. Before Nyota had told him that Spock was already dying, he’d threatened to come to Vulcan and kill Spock with his own two hands, “damn the Hippocratic Oath and damn the consequences.” Gaila had just cried herself sick, sobbing over and over that she was the reason Jim and Spock met in the first place.

“My son would not have been able to tell you this, most likely,” Sarek begins, “but James refused to fight at the end.”

“What?” Nyota asks, just barely too bewildered to be sad.

“He dropped his weapon and allowed Spock to take his life without a fight. He even, while he had breath, made sure to tell Spock that he loved him.”

“You’re right, he didn’t tell me that.” Nyota focuses on dissolving the lump in her throat before speaking again. “He did tell me, though, that as Spock--” She clears her throat and takes deep, steadying breaths before continuing. “Jim was only thinking about how much he loved Spock.”

The kettle starts screaming, and Nyota jumps at the sound. Sarek doesn’t seem fazed at all, and why should he? He’s likely gone numb at this point, unable to handle the slow, humiliating death of his child.

Nyota eagerly wraps her hands around the mug of tea when Sarek sets it down in front of her, letting the scalding ceramic burn against her palms. It’s evening now, and just cool enough that Nyota can handle a hot beverage. She needs it anyways; she’s been constantly dehydrated over the past couple days due to her excessive crying.

“I apologize that I cannot offer you milk or sugar,” Sarek says.

“Oh, don’t worry about that.” Nyota shakes her head and raises the cup to her lips. The liquid is scalding, but Nyota presses her poor tongue to the roof of her mouth and embraces the pain. It’s a sufficient distraction from her way her heart aches.

They sit in silence for a good ten minutes, sipping their tea at intervals. The sun had still been up when Nyota arrived, albeit low in the sky, but it’s dipped below the horizon now and the sky is a deep purple. The builders were more concerned with creating structures than homes, so there’s no lights to illuminate the kitchen. Sarek has lit a couple candles that toss wavering shadow patterns across the walls. Like this the kitchen feels almost cozy, a soft-edged nest for two grieving souls to curl up in. In almost any other circumstance she would feel horrendously uncomfortable, but not now.

“Vulcans have familial bonds,” Nyota begins slowly. The question under her tongue refuses to stay stifled any longer, even though this might go very badly.

“We do.” Sarek doesn’t look at her like she’s stupid; he’s smart enough to know that there’s something that will follow.

“Can you…” She stares into the depths of her dwindling tea. “Can you feel Spock weakening?”

“Yes,” Sarek admits.

Shame immediately flushes through Nyota’s entire body, tingling her scalp and burning her toes. She really should’ve known better than to ask such an invasive question. There’s not much tea left in her mug, and she swirls it morosely.

“I have always found it most unsettling,” Sarek says softly, “that Humans spend their entire lives isolated from each other. Amanda and I were married long enough that I can confidently assume your thoughts.” Nyota raises her eyebrows, more curious than challenging. “You believe that it is devastating to feel my son dying through our bond.” She nods, mute. “In one sense, you are correct. It is… painful, to feel my son slipping away when I cannot help him. In another, I have the advantage of being truly with him. I do not have to guess at what he is feeling and what he needs. I do not have to even be in the same room as him to comfort him. What these bonds allow is greater than I have ever heard of two Humans having. It is not unbearable to feel him; it is an honor. What would be unbearable is isolation from him.”

“I think I understand,” Nyota says. “I’ve always been curious about it-- telepathy. What it might be like to be inside the mind of another, to truly know them. I used to nag Jim, ask him what it was like.” She laughs, but it’s wet. “He never had an answer for me. He’d just shake his head and tell me that there was nothing like it. The closest he ever got to putting the sensation into real words was describing it as “like coming home.” But even that is so vague.”

“That is--” Sarek goes entirely still for a second, not that he’d been moving around much before. “I beg your pardon. Spock requires something.”

He slides easily from his seat despite his appearance and hurries with neat Vulcan steps to Spock’s room. Nyota looks into the depths of her tea, too dark to resemble anything but a churning midnight ocean. She swirls the mug again for good measure.

_Poetic,_ she can almost hear Jim say. There’s laughter in his not-there voice, a brotherly tease. She wipes away new tears as they begin to roll fat down her cheeks.

_Fuck off,_ she thinks at him. _Come back with comforting words or don’t come back at all._

Just as soon as she’s thought it, ice floods her veins. Her head spins with vertigo even though she’s sitting down.

_No,_ she pleads to a dead man. _No, fuck, I didn’t mean it. Come back. Come back!_

She’s distantly aware that she’s acting completely irrationally, that this is all happening in her head and Jim can’t abandon her because he’s not real anymore. That doesn’t stop the terror. It doesn’t stop her mind from continuing on.

_I’m sorry,_ Jim says to her. His tone is sweet and remorseful. She can almost feel a hug, the not-too-tight embraces he delivered only when someone was in need of genuine comfort. If she tries, she thinks she can smell that stupid sandalwood shampoo he insisted on using even if it took up a good portion of his ‘personal item’ weight allowance. _You’re right, that was rude of me._

Nyota sniffs as quietly as she can and drinks the rest of her tea.

When Sarek emerges from Spock’s room, Nyota has set the mug to be cleaned and is loitering awkwardly in the kitchen. She doesn’t have any reason to stay here, but she’d feel weird leaving without any sort of goodbye.

“My apologies for the interruption,” Sarek tells her.

She waves his apology off. “No, there’s no need for you to apologize. You were tending to your son. I should be leaving anyways; there’s a lot to deal with back on board.” She swallows hard and looks down at her feet, cursing her traitorous eyes as they well up again. “There’s… too much to deal with.”

“If I can aid you in any way, do not hesitate to ask.”

Nyota shakes her head. “No, I couldn’t. You’ll have enough trouble of your own, come morning.”

“This trouble is shared.” She looks at him with teary eyes. For all the grief and agony he must be feeling, he seems to stand taller than he did when Nyota first arrived. “We must aid each other; grief is not to be handled alone.”

Too overwhelmed to speak, Nyota only nods. She can’t believe she was ever afraid of him.

“Good night, Nyota.”

She hadn’t realized he even knew her first name. Thank goodness she knows his so she can respond in kind. “Good night, Sarek.”

She steps into the cooling night. There’s an unidentifiable jumble of emotions in her chest, swelling and expanding until she thinks the very air around her vibrates with whatever energy lives in the space between her lungs.

Sarek says Spock won’t last until morning. She can only hope that he’s wrong, that Spock can lay eyes on one more sunrise. That he can die under a bright golden sun, just as he lived in orbit around Jim. Although the distant star would be a poor imitation, it would be something nonetheless.

But Sarek is right; Spock doesn’t last until morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s the conclusion to this lovely, lighthearted fanfiction! Thanks to all of you (if any) who stuck along for the whole, spaced-out ride.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! I’m not dead! I have been and will continue to be very busy, though. I wanted to get further into this before I posted so I could have a timeline, but I felt guilty for abandoning Ao3 for so long as I drowned in schoolwork, my novel, and WIPs, so here’s part one. I have a seven or eight chapters planned for this, although I’m warning you all now that they’re going to take a while and updates won’t be regular. Still, enjoy!


End file.
